


Reasons Why I Want To Fuck My Student's Brother

by dumbasshyperfixationtime



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Adorable Georgie Denbrough, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Be surprised all you like but theres, Beverly Marsh & Stanley Uris Are Best Friends, Bill Denbrough Doesn't Stutter, Bill Denbrough is a smooth motherfucker in this, Bill doesn't know what Jewish means but he's trying, Drunk Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak & Stanley Uris Are Best Friends, He just straight up flirts, Himbo- and I cannot stress this enough- Bill Denbrough, I don't know how the American education system works but I tried, Implied Sexual Content, Just continuous sex jokes and mentions of Stanley being a thirsty twink, M/M, Minor Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Minor Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, No Smut, Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris Are Best Friends, Richie Tozier is Whipped, Stanley Uris Has OCD, Stanley Uris spits in the face of romance, Stanley lowkey has a hand fetish, This fic is really just a love letter to struggling Uni/ College students, Tutoring, Underage Drinking, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fic Exchange, but it's a plot point, but it's all a metaphor because i'm a serious author, but they're 19, but they're kind of always there, in theory, is another genuine plot point, kosher
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:53:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22693618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dumbasshyperfixationtime/pseuds/dumbasshyperfixationtime
Summary: When Richie and Stanley find themselves hard-pressed for money, they decide to go job hunting in order to afford their bills and keep from being thrown onto the street in the middle of January. Little does Stanley know, a tutoring job quickly turns to something more when he meets Bill Denbrough, his student’s charming brother. Shenanigans ensue, Stanley has a sexual awakening and Georgie is hell-bent on hooking his brother up with the cute tutor.Who knew a story about rampant libidos could be so emotionally fulfilling and have, like, meaning?
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 15
Kudos: 175
Collections: IT ❀ Valentine's Day Fic Exchange





	1. Those Eyes And Hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stardust_writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_writer/gifts).



> Hey all,  
> This fic is something I wrote as part of [@Mere_Mortifer's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mere_Mortifer) Valentines Gift Exchange! I made this for @stardust_writer, who requested a fic in which Georgie pairs Bill and Stanley together. Admittedly, I took a few creative liberties on that description, but it inspired me to make this Tutor! Stanley and Student! Georgie fic.  
> Really, this was supposed to be a short oneshot but then it mutated in to a comedy fic about Stanley Uris learning to love, find himself and accept who he is through the families he makes. I've never written or read a Stenbrough fic in my life, so be kind, but I hope you all (my giftee most of all) enjoy what I've come up with xx

It all started with an envelope.  
  
Paper, menacingly pressed up against the chipped wood of the dining table, with two big, red, life-threatening words staring right back up at Stanley Uris and Richie Tozier, as if somehow willing them to death; _Rent Due._ They blink dumbly, shivering and teeth clattering through the palpable silence between them- there’s an irony in the fact that they’re only cold because the heater’s off to save money which, evidently, is a worthless crusade deemed fruitless.  
  
“Well, fuck,” Richie blurts stupidly, hands on his hips in a manner that would otherwise be comical if not for the situation they’re in. He tuts as Stanley exhales sharply, pinching at the point between his brows in a lazy effort to massage the beginnings of a headache away “guess it’s gonna be ramen for the next few thousand years. Though, I don’t know if Eds will be too happy with that.” He offers a dry chuckle, the kind of laugh a person may have when they don’t find a situation funny but they’d rather believe it is in the face of an unkind reality.  
  
“Richie,” Levels Stanley, giving his friend the driest stare he can muster “we can’t pay this.”  
  
Simply put, they’re royally fucked with a capitol F. On top of college tuitions and the constant intake of food (whilst Stanley doesn’t eat much, Richie’s known to snack incessantly, which has recently become a point of argument long given up on. Regardless of money, junk food is a must if they’re to share an apartment- and they _are,_ because heaven knows if Stanley had to deal with these bills on his own, groceries would be the last of his problems), they’d barely been able to keep electricity and water. Even still, Stanley was _sure_ \- as confident as a man who triple checks _everything_ can be- that they had enough money. He counted obsessively, filing through the money jar perched on the kitchen counter every night like a hard-pressed accountant but now, coins scattered beside that _damned envelope,_ he finds they have hardly enough. In theory, he’s sure it’d be somewhat justified to point a finger at Richie, who’s rather notorious for buying unnecessary things on impulse, but if the way he looks close to pulling his hair out is anything to go by, Stanley’s pretty sure he’s just as surprised. Frankly, Richie looks like Stanley had just run over his cat and decided to back onto it again, just to make sure it’s really dead. He doesn’t need to look in a mirror to know he looks worse- Stanley _feels_ worse.  
  
“Fuck,” Curses Richie, spitting out his words venomously like a Russian who’s indulged in a glass too many of vodka- infuriated, frustrated, fear masked through a thin layer of drunken anger “ _Fuck,_ Stan. What the _fuck._ ”  
  
“I don’t get paid for another week,” Stanley leans over the table and reaches out to grab the paper carefully, fingers twitching and shivering in the air (although, that may be due to the cold rather than fear), apprehensive like it may bite. His fingertips touch course paper as he pinches it between his fingers perhaps a bit too hard, as if wanting to get revenge by hurting the bills. It’s flimsy in his hands, flutters around with a wobbly kind of noise as its brought up to Stanley’s face and read carefully “This is due Friday.”  
  
“We’re going to die. We’re going to get kicked onto the streets and starve and die.”  
  
“ _Please,_ be realistic, Richie,” Stanley begins, putting the paper down rather suddenly as if it’s burnt him and tutting before wiping his hands on his jeans “Eddie won’t let you die, he’ll take you in and _I’ll_ freeze and starve and die.” He gestures absently, staring down the paper carefully before side-eying his friend in a jittery manner, sure that if he looks away too long, the digits on the bill will only increase. Richie, for the first time in the past hour, grins slowly, until he’s got a big, Cheshire cat, toothy smile across his face. Stanley exhales shakily.  
  
“I didn’t mention freezing, but now that I think about it _yeah,_ probably that, too.”  
  
“We already _are._ ” Stanley points out, which makes Richie’s lips twitch as if considering laughing before rather suddenly tugging down as he realizes that it isn’t entirely a joke. They’ve been close to hypothermic all winter- shaking, wearing unnecessary layers to keep from wasting electricity, insisting on visiting their friends before staying in their own freezing, fridge-like home.  
  
“Okay,” Stanley levels, sounding shaky and rather unlike himself, wringing his hands together as if that’ll somehow magically make money appear in them “okay, we can fix this. _Okay._ We just need to get money, right?” Richie’s face lights up, as if something ingenious has been mentioned, and he shoots a pair of finger guns at Stanley far too naturally, to the point where it’s vaguely disturbing and he’s sure he should be worried for his mental health.  
  
“Right you are, Stan The Man,” –then, perhaps too excitably- “we could do a _lemonade stand_.” Stanley chooses to actively ignore such a childish remark, instead thinking of temporary jobs they could apply for that preferably do _not_ involve the serving of cold beverages for a couple of dollars, as fun as that may at first seem (the idea very quickly becomes unappealing when Stanley considers being sticky from lemonade juice, realizes that no one will buy lemonade in _January_ anyway and pocket change _won’t_ be enough to solve their current problem).  
  
“Call Eddie, he’s got all those job flyers, right?” Richie clicks his fingers again, this time as if an uncle at a school dance, before nodding in a crazed manner.  
  
“ _Fuck._ Edwardo to the rescue.” He mutters, eyes bright, as he scrambles through the house to find his phone, leaving Stanley to contemplate the coins strewn across the table in a depressed kind of manner, hands subtly twitching at his sides to organize them into coordinated rows to sooth himself- in the end, he allows himself a moment of weakness, obsessive tendencies taking over; he’ll do _anything_ if it’ll pacify his brimming anxiety.  
  
Eddie Kaspbrak, also affectionately referred to as ‘ _Eds’, ‘Eddie Spaghetti’, ‘babe’, ‘cock buster’, ‘Edwardo’_ and _‘booty boy’_ by Richie respectively, is undeniably one of Stanley’s closest friends- of course, with Richie and Beverly. Equally as anal retentive as Stanley- which is honestly a _virtue_ shared- he typically spends his free time cooped up in _his_ apartment, making out with _his_ roommate, on _his_ couch- no hard feelings, though. Having recently moved out and, subsequently, as far away from his mother as humanly possible, he lives off of student benefits (lucky bastard) and lives in a college dorm (not so lucky), working as a mailman to maintain steady enough funds. This, of course, means that he’s able to walk through the apartment door no less than fifteen minutes later with piles of various advertising and job hunting paraphernalia scooped messily in his arms, helmet from biking all the way over hastily still adamantly fastened to his head. He hurries through the apartment easily, as if it’s as much his home as either boy’s (at this point, it is), throwing the pamphlets down and clipping his helmet off with one hand as he swats away Richie’s efforts to greet him with a kiss to the cheek with the other.  
  
“I just got off work, so I don’t have much,” Stanley tries his best not to scoff at that, because he’s vaguely sure that something close to fifty trees have died from all the paper on their table- on another equally important note, the pile’s a mess and he wants so desperately to sort them just as he had the pennies, but he bites down the urge with much frustration “but this is what I could find.”  
  
“Spaghetti baby to the rescue!” Richie cheers, this time making grabby hands to hold Eddie’s waist. He swats him away in favor of sitting at the table beside Stanley, pulling a pamphlet into this hands and raking his eyes over it carefully- Stanley’s awfully greatful as he grabs his own paper, nowhere near in the mood to witness any displays of affection.  
  
“Don’t make Stan do all the work, this is just as much your apartment as his. Help us.” He lectures like a bothered mother, waving him over. Richie obeys and does just as much, ignoring the way Stanley snorts a laugh at him- the guy’s low-key _whipped_ \- and instead settling on playing footsie with a distracted Eddie like a puppy desperate for attention _._  
  
“Thanks for this Eddie.” Stanley says rather than ‘ _Cross your legs, Tozier, I can see your boner from all the way over here’_ , smiling when their friend gives him an affectionate rub on the back, shuffling out of his puffy, blue jacket shortly after (Stanley and Richie share a significant glance at one another as if to say ‘ _In this cold, he’ll be putting it back on very shortly’_ ) and settling comfortably.  
  
“Anything to keep you from freezing and starving on the street.” Richie gasps and grins ridiculously wide, as if finding some personal joy in Eddie’s unknowing reference to an earlier conversation. Stanley rolls his eyes as he promptly discards a dog walking pamphlet, sure that Richie, with his short attention span, could control a puppy just as much as Stanley could stomach picking up dog shit.  
  
In the end, they settle on gathering around a sensibly designed, green pamphlet that Eddie found, advertising middle school tutoring. The pay is surprisingly decent- a hundred per hour- and Richie and Stanley find that they met all the requirements for the job, having both completed their high schooling and earned semi-high GPA’s.  
  
“This works,” Stanley nods, reading the details carefully “this works,” he reconfirms, as if convincing himself that _yes, he’s confident in this idea_ and _no, he’s not just agreeing because he’s tired of all these gardening job offerings that expect him to enjoy dirt and Richie to behave himself on someone’s property_ “I can definitely tutor maths and English.”  
  
“And I can teach kids how to say fuck!” Rather suddenly, as if he has a built in reflex for such situations, Eddie whacks Richie’s arm in a scolding manner, making him yelp out dramatically and rub the spot with a babyish pout. Stanley mutters a thank you under his breath- not all heroes wear capes, it seems.  
  
“ _No,_ you’re good with French, idiot. Guitar, too, but you have to audition for that.”  
  
“Aw, _babe._ You think I’m smart~” Richie coos, leaning across his chair to grab at Eddie, who begins to scowl but otherwise remains firmly seated.  
  
“I never said that, idiot.” He snaps with little venom, adamantly avoiding his boyfriend’s gaze.  
  
“Oh, but I know for a _fact_ you think I’m smart,” Leaning across and closing the distance, he happily begins placing kisses all across his boyfriend’s face, voice muffled against his skin “you’re my hero, you know,” –then, after a moment’s consideration, as if it’s not quite as important- “Stanley’s, too.” Eddie snorts a laugh and rolls his eyes, standing to sit on Richie’s lap.  
  
“ _Fine,_ I think you’re smart, _idiot._ ” Richie’s kisses begin to turn far more intimate, leaving a disgusting kind of wet sound echoing through the room. Promptly, Stanley decides to stand and dish through his pocket for his phone, calling the number on the pamphlet to enquire further about the job as his friends cultivate the beginnings of a make-out session. Swallowing down bile (he simply _cannot stand_ third wheeling), he allows himself to breathe slowly before punching the numbers into the phone.  
  


* * *

  
Turns out, tutoring’s criminally easy to volunteer to do- no degree needed, simply enquire, wait as you’re listed and show up at the given address once sessions are set up via the school. A week later, and yet another week before rent is due after sending his charismatic roommate out to schmooze the landlord and practically _beg_ for more time, Stanley finds himself walking down the driveway of the Denbrough home, a briefcase clutched tightly in his hand.  
  
The house itself is pleasant in the way family homes often are- white fence, neat lawn that smells as if freshly mown, flowerbeds, polished porch, fruit trees towering from the back garden. It reminds Stanley of his own home from childhood but, to be fair, his upbringing _was_ painfully nuclear- as bulk standard and normal as a household can be. Expectations of success, a perfect public image, so much stress, so many disappointments. As Stanley rasps his hand against the firm wood of the front door, he swallows thickly and hopes, with the upmost conviction, that the Denbrough home is, in fact, _nothing_ like his. If it _is_ , then he may need to apologize to this poor, poor kid, tell him that _no,_ accounting _won’t be a good degree to take in five years’_ time- ‘ _Don’t do it, kiddo, I’m begging you. Study the birds like you want, it’s a boring profession and you’ll regret_ it’- and hightail it outta there. He shivers, runs his hands over khaki pants, makes sure his shirt is tucked all the way around, and waits as the sound of footsteps (a woman’s, he notes, if the clacking of heels is anything to go by- then again, it may be a male like Richie Tozier, who Stanley’s caught wearing stranger things before) quickly approaches.  
  
The door is opened in an entirely confident manner, revealing who can only be described as what Stanley is sure he’d look like at about age forty if he were a woman. She wears black heels- no stiletto, somewhat short, comfortable yet sophisticated- and a black dress that he’s sure is expensive despite not immediately appearing that way (there’s that kind of shininess and general _crispness_ that costly, plain clothing often has- Stanley, of course, knows this because he, too, puts his money into appearance). He blinks at her in perhaps not a dumb but arguably _slow_ manner, feeling immediately comfortable in her presence- a concept that he, admittedly, is not entirely familiar with around maternal (or paternal, for that matter) figures. Stanley’s own mother could be accurately described as a watered-down suburban mother- flats where there should be heels, dried and flaky lips where there should be lipstick, prayer rather than wine and church in place of morning walks with friends- but this woman, oh _this woman,_ seems to have suburban bliss written all over her, but not in an entirely unpleasant manner. She wears the kindest of smiles, a sort of look that may make a young child wish for one, guilty moment that they’d be adopted, and immediately Stanley is made aware of the lavender perfume she wears, a scent that he’s sure her children associate with comfort and warmth. She extends a hand, red nails matching her lips, in a formal yet weightless manner.  
  
“Stanley Uris?” She asks, voice as soothing as honey running down a cold-ridden throat. Stanley extends his own hand and shakes hers in a well-practiced tango, having spent much of his childhood learning formal etiquette- another thing that should be noted about his upbringing is that he was expected to act orderly and mature to an extent that most adults have never behaved.  
  
“Yes, ma’am, and you must be Mrs. Denbrough?” She waves a hand around as if to say ‘ _Oh, don’t be silly’_ , her smile just as warm as the entirety of her demeanor.  
  
“Oh, please- call me Sharon. Come in, Georgie’s just through the hall.” With an elegant flick of the wrist, she ushers Stanley inside, shutting the door before steering through the home with the confidence of a woman who’s lived in the same space for quite some time. Adorning the walls are copious amounts of family photos, smiles and warm memories staring Stanley down- his home, in comparison, was often barren and painfully plain; the kind of house that could be adopted by any given family, the kind of house that shows it’s family’s boring, ever-indifferent and bland personalities, the kind of house that a child- even a child equally as plain as Stanley Uris- may come to hate. Inside, everything is much different, which Stanley is greatful for- the kind, lavender scent on Mrs. Denbrough extends through the home, a smell that reminds him of the incense Beverly often burns through her dorm room, and there’s undertones of cinnamon, perhaps from some baked goods that had previously been made. In no time, they reach a formal dining room- open planned, spacious and grand yet somehow not quite garish- and Stanley finds a boy leaning against the honey toned wooden table, head propped on elbows, a mostly bored expression that suggests he’s been waiting for some time- it can be assumed that the child had been told to wait until Stanley arrived at 5.00 exactly (he’s never been one for early or late; a creature of orderliness and control, he’s always perfectly on time).  
  
“Georgie, darling,” Sharon begins, approaching the boy as Stanley hovers comfortably by the doorframe “This is your tutor, Stanley.” The boy looks up and smiles in such a pleasant manner that he’s sure he gets it from his mother- they have that same crinkle in the eyes, the same genuine happiness that he’s observed upon being greeted by Mrs. Denbrough. Stanley lets out a sharp breath of relief- the child, _thank God,_ seems pleasant enough and well-behaved (he’d been awfully worried that he’d be paired with a troublemaker, since he’s been known to, at the best of times, leave his usual polite and stoic demeanor at the back door in favor of scolding- Richie’s observed this many times since he does, indeed, act like a troublesome fourteen year old, but Stanley’s sure where he can usually bitterly scold and glare, it’d be inappropriate with an _actual child_ under his care).  
  
“Hi.” He greets with a sweet wave of the hand. Mrs. Denbrough smiles with a warm chuckle, ruffling her son’s hair affectionately before turning to Stanley in an equally warm manner that makes him feel cared for- _perhaps,_ he thinks for not the first time _, perhaps he should sort out his motherly issues before asking a fully-grown woman adopt him._  
  
“I’ll leave you two to it, yes?” Stanley nods curtly in agreement “Do you need anything- water, tea, food?”  
  
“Tea would be marvelous, if that’s alright with you.”  
  
“Certainly.” Heels clicking against wooden floorboards, Mrs. Denbrough exits the room, leaving Stanley alone with his new- and first ever- student, Georgie. To say that Stanley is uncomfortable around children could be, debatably, an understatement. Growing up in Derry, with Richie and Beverly as his only friends, Stanley found that he was often too mature for others around him- too calm, too sedated, too responsible, if there ever has been such a thing. Now, taking his place beside Georgie smoothly, Stanley feels somewhat out of his depth- granted, the kid seems nice enough, but what was he thinking when he signed up for this? Stanley isn’t good with children- no, he’s too mature; if anything he’s probably _more_ stifling than the teachers who failed to teach their student. He shuffles somewhat uncomfortably, hiding his interior panic with a calm and collected exterior, giving Georgie the most genuine smile he can muster.  
  
“Your mother tells me you’re struggling with algebra, is it?”  
  
“Yeah,” Georgie sheepishly replies with a shrug “A lot of math confuses me but algebra’s the main one.” _Okay,_ Stanley thinks, _I can do this. Algebra- it’s just like accounting, I can handle a bit of algebra.  
  
_“Alright, why don’t we open your textbook and start with the first unit?” Georgie does as much and listens intently as Stanley explains each equation and rule in his own calm, mediated and precise way. Turns out, the kid’s a quick learner, all things considered. Whilst it may take him some time to understand, once he knows what he’s doing, he starts zooming through the book effortlessly, scrawling answers until he reaches a point where he’s stuck and needs help again. This, admittedly, calms Stanley’s nerves immensely- the kid’s actually got good manners, he listens attentively, smiles gratefully and knows his _‘please’_ and ‘ _thank you’_ s. Fifteen minutes and six questions in, he finds that he may be taking a liking to the kid when there’s a knock on the hallway’s open doorframe. Georgie’s the first to look up, brightening immediately when he sees who’s entered the room. Stanley, in his own unique manner, brightens up similarly when his eyes meet the man staring back at him.  
  
It’d be a crime to deny that his first thought upon staring back into charming, brown eyes is _hot._ He doesn’t think _hot_ in the manner he often does with men (or women, for that matter)- wherein he may use such a term to describe someone as objectively attractive rather than personally so- but, rather, in the brutish and shocking manner that Richie Tozier may spit out such a word (and Eddie may agree with a glint in his eye)- that is to say that he is very quickly at the risk of a semi in the company of a child. With a slim build that is somehow both delicate and masculine, he has a similar warm smile as Georgie- all love, all affection, as honest as a gesture can be. There’s a slit across his eyebrow- a fashion trend that Stanley often finds tacky, but thinks suits him. Swallowing in an attempt to moisten his dry mouth, tongue suddenly feeling like course sandpaper against his palette, Stanley dumbly rises from his seat after Georgie.  
  
“Bill!” He cheers, running up and almost knocking over the poor man as he tumbles into him. Bill- _such a syrupy name for a pretty man_ \- laughs mirthfully (oh, that _laugh_ \- sweet and chirpy like the song of a bird) and carefully balances the cup in his hands to keep from tea spilling, using his free hand to embrace Georgie fully.  
  
“Hey there bud. How’s the tutoring going?” Bill ruffles his brother’s hair as his mother had before- another shared trait, it seems- and Stanley distantly wonders if all brothers are like this- certainly, he wouldn’t know, being an only child, but he’s sure that most siblings- particularly when one is thirteen and highly hormonal- don’t show affection as openly as this pair. Then again, this family has already proven themselves to be genuine and open where others are cold behind closed doors. Certainly, it’s a pleasant change to observe a family who is full of love and affection. He doesn’t speak much to his own parents- a formal phone call twice or three times a year, it appears, suffices for them- and he’s heard about worse, with Richie’s parents who call half as much, Beverly’s non-existent contact with her asshole of a father and the continuous ringing of Eddie’s phone that usually, when answered, ends with Eddie teary and frustrated, grabbing for a phantom inhaler that he hasn’t had since high school.  
  
“Good!” Georgie cheers, grinning from ear to ear and carefully stepping back “Stanley’s a good teacher- really patient.” Bill gives his brother the kind of tight-lipped smile that a mother may use fondly, rather suddenly looking up to meet Stanley’s gaze and subsequently sending a shiver down his spine- those eyes, _oh those eyes;_ glinting as if the very stars in the sky are in there, all cunning, daring and pretty at once, the kind of beauty that hurts to admire.  
  
“That’s good. Nice to meet you, I’m Bill.” He extends a hand and Stanley, in a manner that he hopes is swift but appears somewhat gauche, ambles forward and takes it. Bill has a handshake that reads confidence and- here comes the conflicting trait again- warmth. His hand is delicate- perhaps not as slender and elegant as Stanley’s, who has the fingers of a piano player, but instead sitting somewhere comfortably between the course fingertips of a stable hand and the beautiful form of a ballet dancer. Stanley notices, eying those pretty knuckles, that there’s a running line of pigment from his thumb to the back of his hand- ink, perhaps, or blood but the colour appears far too bright. Usually, he’d be disgusted, wiping his hand clean with a wrinkled nose as he worries about getting dirty, but he finds, looking at such an unusual and uncoordinated swipe of colour, that he doesn’t mind at all- if anything, he finds it endearing.  
  
“Stanley,” He mutters, pulling away after two efficient shakes of the hand, hoping that his cheeks aren’t childishly reddening “Uris.” He adds for good measure in a manner that is immediately clumsy and rather unlike him, who’s usually so composed that each interaction he has with others often feels rehearsed by how smoothly it runs.  
  
“I brought you tea- I can bring milk and sugar if you’d like.” Rather dumbly, he stares down at the black liquid in Bill’s hands.  
  
“No, that’s fine. I- I have my tea black.”  
  
“Bitter.” Bill remarks, passing the cup over and watching intently as Stanley smoothly turns it in his hands to hold from the handle- he’s never been a wrap your fingers around the cup kind of guy, it’s always seemed like a somewhat brutish way to hold such a thing to him.  
  
“I prefer bitter over sweet.” Stanley explains, certain he’s blushing now- he hopes desperately that he looks somewhat like a wooed seventeenth century maiden rather than a blotchy tomato.  
  
“Interesting,” Bill charmingly muses with a light smile, before averting his gaze somewhere to the left of Stanley “I’ll leave you to it, then,” smiling back at Stanley, he nods in a small and polite gesture “Nice meeting you.”  
  
“Likewise.” He mutters, watching as Bill wonders out of the room calmly. Coughing briefly into his elbow, he offers Georgie, who looks amused, a half-smile before sitting back down by the table and taking a sip of his tea- _English Breakfast,_ he notes, his favorite for its simplicity.  
  
“Let’s continue, hmm?” Stanley muses, watching as Georgie smiles cheekily and takes his place beside him. Quietly opening the textbook, he peers into it in a manner that makes Stanley assume he’s reading a question, before staring back up at him, grin increased tenfold.  
  
“You like my brother, don’t you?” Any composure Stanley previously had is entirely gone in favor of spluttering and almost choking on his spit.  
  
“I beg your pardon?” Georgie shrugs cheekily, in a manner that suggests he knows more than he’s giving away, looking back down at his textbook as if unbothered.  
  
“You were blushing back there.”  
  
“I-“ Stanley begins, eyes blown out wide as if he’s been caught- _he has, he has been caught_ \- but he quickly clears his throat and composes himself. Professionalism, even in the face of attraction, has always been his best feature “I don’t think this is an entirely appropriate conversation, Georgie.”  
  
“ _Okay,_ Stanley,” He replies, unconvinced “ _Okay_.” Stanley has never felt more criticized by a child in his life and he would, frankly, be embarrassed if it weren’t for the fact that Georgie moves on very quickly after that, continuing to go through his work as if the conversation had never occurred. He’s rather impressed by the kid overall, as by 7.00, he’s managed to work through an entire chapter within the algebra section, making a few mistakes here and there but appearing, without fail, excited to learn how to do better whenever Stanley corrects him. Despite his clear know-it-all nature (Stanley will need to be more careful if this Bill makes any more appearances) he’s mostly kind and curious, which reminds Stanley an awful lot of Richie as a child, who’d always been intelligent enough to do well in class and- although perhaps less polite than Georgie- held a natural curiosity well through his childhood until he adamantly decided school was uncool. Stanley likes him, likes teaching him (likes seeing Bill) and, as he takes $200 from Mrs. Denbrough before offhandedly complimenting the gorgeous rouge of her nails ( _‘Really, Sharon, the colour compliments your skin tone wonderfully’_ ), he promptly decides- and voices as much- that _yes,_ he would be _delighted_ to continue tutoring Georgie.  
  


* * *

  
Richie resolves that they simply _must_ celebrate their newfound jobs that night, suggesting a last minute round of drinks at the bar that resides two blocks down from their apartment. A local business, the establishment is usually a place that Stanley refuses to frequent- leather booths that have a distinct musk, filled with rowdy college students, the interior lighting just dark enough to send a spark of anxiety through Stanley’s spine- but he agrees, just this once, to go, mostly because the relief of being able to pay the bills and _maybe_ afford heating if they keep this fiasco up leaves him spineless and relaxed enough. Besides, he doesn’t have work tomorrow and his only class is at 2.00- getting drunk shouldn’t be an issue (of course, drinking _is_ always an issue for Stanley, who loses any impulse control he has- _a lot_ , it’s a lot to lose but it all goes- to dancing like Beverly Marsh, shamelessly and loudly laughing like Eddie Kaspbrak and, _yes,_ doing voices and making inappropriate comments like Richie Tozier. Drinking is a choice he has to make wisely and scarcely).  
  
The tightly-knitted band of misfits find themselves a booth that is reasonably clean enough (Eddie pulls out a pack of wet wipes from his pocket and cleans the table off before sitting), and enjoy their drinks as a local band- the kind that makes music Richie and Beverly like, Eddie pretends not to like, and Stanley genuinely doesn’t like- strum away on stage.  
  
“Well boys, congrats on not ending up homeless.” Beverly comments, gulping down her beer heartily, grinning in that whole hearted way that she often does.  
  
“Heavens, let’s not joke about it- For a minute there, I was sure we’d be out on the street and I’m almost certain Richie couldn’t last five minutes without getting kidnapped.” Stanley deadpans.  
  
“Because I’m so irresistible that anyone would want me!”  
  
“So weak that you couldn’t put up a fight, more like.” Eddie comments with an eye roll, a smile tugging at his lips when Richie leans over to pinch his cheeks teasingly. Beverly seems amused and smitten at their antics where Stanley, frankly, is queasy- good for them for getting their shit together, but he had no idea that they’d be _worse_ once they got over the incessant pining.  
  
“Well, what’s tutoring like?” Bev asks expectantly. Richie turns from Eddie in favor of pouting ridiculously, flopping across the table in a manner so brash that Eddie needs to pull his glass towards himself to keep it from knocking over.  
  
“I hate it!” He exclaims overdramatically, voice muffled against the wood of the table- Eddie looks somewhat disturbed by the proximity of his boyfriend’s mouth to the presumably germ-infested table, but otherwise remains quiet despite the evident disgust twitching inside of him “The kid’s _rude!_ I’m trying to explain to him verbs and he just looks at me like ‘ _You’re not the boss of me’_ and _ugh_! It was so hard to keep from just turning to him and saying ‘L _isten here, you little shit, I’m helping you for your benefit, not mine-_ ‘”   
  
“Technically the money makes it your benefit.” Eddie points out, dishing through his fanny pack’s pockets undoubtedly for a wet wipe to make Richie clean his face off.  
  
“Stop being smart, babe- _God_ he was annoying! Rude for the sake of it!” Stanley’s lips twitch upwards as Eddie finally finds a wipe, handing it over to Richie who rises from the table to silently obey- again with the whipped thing- and wipe his lips clean. He finds their shuffle somewhat amusing, considering Richie would’ve been complaining and refusing a few months ago, claiming the table is clean and it’s unnecessary. Clearly, something changed in their relationship around the time Eddie started coming around more, since he’s far more pliable to Eddie’s requests, even stooping so low to carry hand sanitizer on his person (Stanley _would_ make fun of it if it weren’t for the fact that Richie’s hands always have _something_ smeared on them and the mess gets all over the house- he’d much prefer Richie clean and he thanks Eddie every day for small miracles).  
  
“I wonder who that reminds you of.”  
  
“Excuse me, what’s that supposed to mean?” Whines Richie, eying Stanley incredulously. From his side, Eddie zips up the fanny pack and elbows his ribs in a playful manner.  
  
“Rich, you smoked behind the bleachers and didn’t do homework despite finding it easy.”  
  
“You _were_ that kid.” Beverly agrees, nodding solemnly. Stanley bites his tongue to hold back a laugh at Richie’s surprise- he _was_ a pain in the ass and most teachers did, indeed, seem very much on the verge of calling him a little shit. Often, he found himself in detention after throwing spitballs at another classmate- near their senior year, it was Eddie who was the subject of these schoolyard pranks, complaining to teachers repeatedly until he began to realise that _oh, Richie’s just an idiot who only knows how to pull pigtails to get attention_ (senior year was a hard time for Stanley, having to sit through Richie’s whining about the cute kid in Bio who’s always scowling at him).  
  
“As if you can talk, Red!”  
  
“I’m just sayin’, that kid’s you.” Richie gasps incredulously- far too dramatically, really- and throws his palms down on the table in a manner that sounds somewhat painful, with such a forceful slap of the skin.  
  
“I was _not_ that bad!” He argues pathetically.  
  
“You _still are_.”  
  
“Stan! This is bullying!” Eddie giggles from besides Richie, failing to stifle chuckles behind the palm of his hand. Richie rounds on him and sticks a finger in his face, eyes softening at the image of his boyfriend laughing- it’s his weakness, Eddie could wiggle a finger and Richie would probably jump off a bridge for him “Eds, this is so not funny!” Eddie’s eyes crinkle as he swats the finger away, voice breathless and wheezy.  
  
“It is a little funny.”  
  
“It’s like karma.” Beverly mutters, and Eddie loses it, shrieking and leaning on Richie’s shoulder to keep from falling over. His eyes crinkle, he clutches his stomach and he squeaks in cute, little sounds.  
  
“Yuck it up.” Richie tries, absolutely smitten despite very clearly trying to be annoyed, tutting and wiping the tears from Eddie’s blissful eyes in a privately pleased manner. Beverly gives Stanley a look and mutters the word ‘ _Whipped’. ‘Very’_ Stanley mouths back, lips twitching to a smile- trust Beverly Marsh to be on the same page as him.  
  
“Since you _assholes_ think this is so funny,” Richie begins, turning from Eddie to Stanley as he breathes more stably and calms his giggling “why don’t _you_ share _your_ tutoring experience, Stanny.” Richie bitterly mutters with little bite, as if he somehow expects Stanley’s experience to be equally disastrous.  
  
He considers what to say, because there’s plenty to discuss. He could talk about Georgie, with his polite demeanor, quick learning and genuine willingness to improve- perhaps he’d describe the kid as ‘ _Cute’_ or _‘Well-mannered’_ or ‘ _A strange combination of all four friends, as if he’s their lovechild_ ’. Maybe it’d be better to talk about Mrs. Denbrough, who was hospitable, kind, gentle and more than welcoming, seeming genuinely impressed with the progress they’d made that evening. Or maybe- _yes, maybe_ \- he’d talk about Bill. Bill Denbrough, with those pinkish lips that he only now, in his recollection, realizes were licked moist with a sheen of spit- or was it Chap Stick? Certainly his lips _were_ smooth. Bill and those kind eyes that seemed to make Stanley suddenly feel safe and sure of himself. Bill and his confident stature, confident voice, confident handshake. Maybe he could confess in that typical Beverly Marsh manner- ‘ _He’s kind, he called me sweetheart- I think this one’s different.’_ \- or rant like Eddie- _‘He’s so annoying, Stan! And hot! And annoying! Ugh, why_ him _?’-_ or, even, lament in that loopy way he’s known Richie to go soft- _‘I think he’s_ it _. I’m in love- really, I am. I can’t look at him without wanting to kiss those pretty lips and God, those shorts!_ ’ Stanley finds, however, that he doesn’t say any of that- no, instead he speaks in a way that is unique to him. A way, he finds, that is unusual and his own confession. A way that he decidedly _hates_ and sounds an awful lot like:  
  
“I want to fuck my student’s older brother.”  
  
Time stops. Everything stops. Rather suddenly, the room’s dead quiet like in the movies- except, not really, it just _seems that way_. The band still plays, customers still talk, waiters serve. The four of them, however, sit there as if a time bomb’s gone off in the middle of their table- wide eyes, contemplative, blinking as if trying to understand his words and Stanley, to give himself credit, is composed for about five seconds before he gasps, turns bright red, and hides his face in his hands with a sheepish embarrassment that you’d expect to come from Eddie, rather than him.  
  
“I… I uh… I didn’t-“  
  
“Woah, slow down there cowboy,” Beverly begins, somewhat shocked, if not pleased. Stanley feels her gently touch his shoulder in reassurance- Beverly’s always been good at that, soothing people with touch- as he raises his gaze to self-consciously look into her devilish eyes “Details, please.”  
  
“I… cant.” He splutters rather unpoetically.  
  
“Stanlon, it is a _crime_ to leave me blue balled like this.” Richie speaks next and Stanley spares him a glance, finding him genuinely entranced and interested- teasing, sure, certainly on the edge of making fun, but still engaged.  
  
“It’s just…” Stanley licks his lips, eyes the chipped wood of their booth table, sighs. He’s in too deep now, he may as well give up- it’s something of a shame that he couldn’t uphold his reputation of being sexless, prudish and emotionless for longer “He’s hot- _unfairly_ hot.”  
  
“Babe,” Beverly gasps in a genuinely excited manner, taking Stanley’s hands to stare at him as if pulling his soul out of his body and examining it closely “ _babe._ This is _news._ ”  
  
“It isn’t really.” Stanley mutters, cheeks going red. Beverly seems to adamantly disagree, squeezing his hands decisively.  
  
“So, how hot are we talking? Eddie’s mom levels of hot or Chris Pratt?” Richie blurts stupidly, chin cupped in his hands. Stanley considers punching him in the face for a moment- just once, a little tap- but remains still.  
  
“Isn’t it… _unethical_ to make moves on him?” Eddie speaks from beside Richie. Stanley eyes him just as Richie makes a loud, puffing kind of noise.  
  
“Unethical, unshmethical.” He disregards. Stanley, however, considers these claims rather seriously- certainly, it does seem inherently wrong. Surely, there’s some kind of bond or trust between a tutor and their student. If not unethical, then it must be immoral, at least- which really is a shame, since Stanley’s beginning to feel his brain short circuit at the thought of Bill in a blissful way that makes him unhinged and close to using words that he wasn’t sure even existed in his vocabulary, Beverly-esque things such as ‘ _He’s a snack’_ , _‘I’d tap that’_ and, of course, _‘What a fucking hunk and a half’_.  
  
“No, Eddie’s right. I have to maintain a professional distance.” _Fucking in the Denbrough’s bathroom in between tea breaks, unfortunately, is off the table entirely_ , Stanley thinks before inwardly cringing at himself- perhaps distancing himself from Bill _would_ be a good thing if _this_ is what sexual attraction feels like.  
  
“Boo, boring.” Richie points out his tongue childishly and Stanley kicks him under the table, making him squeak and Eddie throw him a thankful look that’s often shared between the two- who knew that Stanley could ever bond so effectively with someone over scolding his frustrating best friend?  
  
“Props to you. If I had to behave myself in close proximity to a hottie, I simply couldn’t.”  
  
“Yeah we know that, Bev. Your track record sure as hell is-”  
  
“Don’t slut shame Bev!” Eddie shouts perhaps too loudly, shooting Richie a glare that _should_ be intimidating but very clearly is part of some confuddled, typically Richie and Eddie (meaning confusing, somewhat brimming with sexual tension and plain _weird_ ) inside joke.  
  
“Who said slut? Not me, no siree- _you’re_ the one who used those words, Eddie.” Richie throws his hands up in surrender, and Eddie rolls his eyes, a grin playing at the corners of his lips.  
  
“Christ, Beep Beep Rich.”  
  
“Slut or not, this girl needs a martini- Eds?” Beverly mutters, unbothered-Stanley recalls the time he’d asked her if Richie’s jokes upset her, when she’d shrugged and muttered ‘ _You boys wouldn’t do anything to hurt me. He’s a dickhead, but a loveable one_ ’ and he’d disagreed with ‘ _Dickhead yes, loveable is debatable_ ’- shuffling out of the booth gracelessly in that way Beverly often moves- he also recalls her informing Stanley that sometimes she moved and dressed in a brutish manner to keep men from eying her, which has since become something he often thinks about and becomes enraged considering.  
  
“ _God,_ please. I need to be unconscious to deal with Richie tonight.” Eddie follows Beverly out of the booth, taking her hand affectionately and wondering away. Stanley smiles privately at their unabashed affection- he’d never admit it, but touching, seeing people touching, just general intimacy, makes him warm in a way he’s sure is linked his parent’s distanced nature.  
  
“Rude!” Richie calls, sighing and turning to Stanley as if to say ‘ _Can you believe him? So mean._ ’ He rolls his eyes and watches Eddie and Beverly sit by the bar, waiting to flag down a bartender. He smiles at them- his friends- and feels affection swell in his heart. Whenever they’re together, he finds that things appear in place, as if the world lines up perfectly with the stars and moon- Eddie, the excitable lover, Beverly, the daring dame, Richie, the goofy devotee and Stanley, the level-headed organizer. _Them_ , their group- friends through high school and into college. He turns to Richie- his closest and oldest friend- and watches him staring at the two, as if thinking something similar.   
  
“How are you and Eddie doing?” He asks absently. Richie turns to face him and cocks a brow is a strange, almost disgusted manner.  
  
“Where the fuck did _that_ come from? You see us every day, you know how.” Stanley shrugs, takes a sip of his wine- _yes, he ordered wine at a bar_ \- and eyes Eddie again.  
  
“I don’t know, isn’t that what people normally ask?” Beverly speaks to the waiter, voice inaudible, and then turns to whisper something to Eddie as he turns on his heels to get their drinks. Eddie laughs with a snort, nose familiarly wrinkling, and shakes his head- it makes Stanley feel warm.  
  
“Since when do we do normal people things?” Stanley scoffs, ignoring the undeniable truth in that question, and turns to Richie with a cocked brow.  
  
“I feel attacked, but none taken.” Richie furrows his brows, as if thinking, and shrugs somewhat self-consciously, leaning further back in his chair and resting his head behind his hands- he looks like a complete douchebag, and Stanley’s distantly sure that he’s aware of it, the dickhead.  
  
“We’re… We’re good, man…” He licks his lips, moves his hands to his knees as he runs undoubtedly sweaty palms over his jeans, shrugs in an unsure manner as he eyes Stanley “Listen, uh… Eddie’s mom wants him over at for Valentine’s Day… something about being lonely and yada yada, you know what she’s like,” Stanley can’t help but scoff, because so many memories of a teary or angry Eddie running to meet up with the losers after fighting with his mom come to mind that he can’t seem to pick one “He doesn’t want to but… Stan, how do you convince your boyfriend to come out without seeming pushy?” Stanley’s left somewhat stunned speechless, unsure of what advice he could possibly give. Whilst a gay man, he’s not exactly well-versed on the art of coming out; his had been brief and painfully distanced. His mother cried, but not in the preferable, happy and cheerful manner, whilst his father- who he’d expected to respond worse- merely nodded, told him his mom would ‘ _come around’_ and since ignored the entire conversation. It never came up again and nothing much changed. Stanley still wonders if he would’ve been happier if they’d yelled or demanded he leave- it would’ve been _something_ , at least. No, he has _no idea_ because where Eddie is his mother’s main priority to a fault and Richie is forgotten by his parents entirely, Stanley is nothing more than merchandise- an empty body where only success is projected. His family, at the best of times, can feel plainly like business partners who he happens to be related to.  
  
“How would I know?” He immediately responds, because _really, how would he?_ In addition to the entire _coming out_ fiasco, wherein it would be hardly appropriate to say ‘ _Start an argument so Eddie’s sure his mother will have to acknowledge some aspect of his personal life_ ’, Stanley, if it isn’t evident already, has never dated before. He’s kissed, sure, but those hardly count when it’s only been with his best friends (Richie when they were thirteen and he’d come out- it’d been an awkward confession, where he was afraid he’d be rejected, and Richie randomly sprung on him, kissed him before muttering ‘ _Me too_ ’. Stanley didn’t know _what_ to think, didn’t know if Richie liked him or not, but it became pretty clear that there was nothing there when he suddenly broke into laughter, apologized, and turned back to the video game they’d been playing as if nothing happened. Then there was Beverly, when they were sixteen, and if Richie’s kiss doesn’t count then Beverly’s never really happened- she’d been crying, a boy had tried to look under her skirt and Richie was somewhere stalking the party to find said boy and beat him until his brains were splattered against the floor- and Stanley found himself cupping her face, carefully wiping spilling tears from her splotchy cheeks, reassuring her that she deserved- _deserves_ \- so much better, so much love. She’d thanked him and he, in a moment of weakness, pressed their lips together in a chaste manner. It was a reassurance, rather than romantic gesture, and Beverly seemed to understand as much when she pulled him into a tight hug and muttered a quiet thank you. Stanley could kiss the two of them- Eddie, too- and it wouldn’t mean anything more than a friendly gesture, and that’s how he knows they barely count). Not to mention that, if Bev’s constant retellings and the vile sounds coming from Richie’s room whenever Eddie’s over are anything to go by, he’s the only virgin of the group- not to say he’s shameful of that whatsoever, Stanley’s the last guy to go running off and having sex for the sake of knowing what it’s like (even if he can’t help but sometimes be curious, and he’s sure that, despite his stifling nature, he jerks off more than even Richie). Truly, he has no idea how to approach such a relationship-specific question when any experience he has comes entirely from advice blogs that inform young, gay men such as Stanley, how to finger themselves.  
  
“Thanks, Stanny. Ask a question, avoid a conversation.” Richie remarks playfully. Stanly tuts.  
  
“Sorry, Rich. I have no idea, I don’t know the first thing about romance. I’m kind of love repellent.” Richie laughs in a short and snappy _‘ha!’._  
  
“Aint that the truth.”  
  
“That isn’t true, Stan. You just haven’t met the right guy yet.” Eddie remarks, sliding next to Richie and seeming unbothered when he takes his martini from his hand to sip it before giving it back.  
  
“Thanks, Ed.”  
  
“Soon as you find yourself someone, you better start hooking me up. Aint no way I’m gonna be the last one single.” Beverly says before taking the olive from her drink and throwing it into her mouth nonchalantly. Silently, Eddie takes his olive- he hates them- and reaches across his table to pass it to Stanley, who honestly _cannot_ get enough of adult-like foods such as oysters and hot peppers. He thankfully takes it from pinched fingers, throwing it into his mouth.  
  
“Richie and I can momentarily break up.” Teases Eddie, wiping wet fingers onto his shorts before taking a sip of his own drink cheerily.  
  
“Uh, no! No, Eddie takes that back, no!” Richie remarks, giving his boyfriend a look that’s half-panic, half-plea. Eddie rolls his eyes, takes his lips away from his glass, and kisses Richie’s nose gently in reassurance, grinning at the blush that sprouts across his cheeks. Beverly shoulder checks Stanley just as he considers barfing all over them.  
  
“You’ll find someone, honey. Maybe it’ll be this brother you’re talkin’ about.” She winks as Stanley rolls his eyes and takes another slow and sure sip of his wine.  
  
“Very funny, Beverly, but _no_. It isn’t happening.”  
  
But oh, if it could be so simple. Georgie, it seems- as good of a kid as he can be- has other plans in store. 


	2. His Confidence

During their second session, all goes well for a grand total of thirty minutes as they work quietly and he occasionally corrects Georgie’s mistakes over his shoulder between bouts of scouring through previous work to see where he’s been going wrong- for the most part, there’s only self-conscious errors, where he’d get the answer right if he didn’t doubt himself and erase the answer- and then, of course, Bill walks through the doorway with a plate of chocolate chip cookies, quietly sauntering over to place them on the table and startling Stanley, who’d been so concentrated on working that he didn’t notice him arrive.  
  
“Sorry.” Bill whispers apologetically, perhaps a tad too close to Stanley’s ear for it to be comfortable, reading over his shoulder carefully to look at the comments he’s been writing in the margins of Georgie’s work.  
  
“You brought cookies!” Georgie cheers, reaching forward to grab one off the plate. Bill ignores him in favor of leaning further towards Stanley from where he’s peering behind him, making shivers run over his spine as he bites the side of his cheek hard to keep from thinking about how his breathing is tickling the sensitive skin of his neck.  
  
“You have really neat handwriting,” Bill comments, eying the loopy, cursive letters of his writing. He stays there for a moment, chest nearly brushing against Stanley’s back, before shuffling in a manner that makes him think _yes, he’s finally leaving, thank God_ before he sits down next to him and props his elbows on the table, suggesting that he very much _will not be leaving for some time_ “Do you like cookies? Mom made ‘em.” He converses. Stanley smiles stiffly, holding back for the sake of his own sanity, and looks up at Bill kindly.  
  
“Sure, I like cookies.” He mutters.  
  
“I just remembered that you said you like bitter things is all, so I can bring chips if you’d prefer.” Bill shrugs as he leans forward to grab a cookie himself, shirt riding up at the back and revealing a slither of smooth skin (there’s a freckle on his lower back and his mouth waters at the thought of now having such an intimate knowledge of his body). Stanley swallows, closes his eyes, breathes to compose himself.  
  
“Chips aren’t bitter, they’re savory.” He points out. Bill laughs in that gorgeous, singsong way and sits back, legs outstretched and long in front of him.  
  
“You got me there.” Stanley clears his throat stiffly, eyes the plate in a sideways glance.  
  
“Unless they’re vegan then no, I don’t eat cookies.” Bill cocks a brow, taking a bite of the cookie in his hand and chewing quickly. He swallows far too soon for it _not_ to be uncomfortable- if the cookie runs down his throat dry, he doesn’t show it- as if desperate to keep talking.  
  
“You’re vegan?”  
  
“Jewish,” Stanley corrects with a shrug “the food has to be kosher.”  
  
“Oh, there’s no meat in this.” Bill- bless his beautiful, handsome goddamned heart- corrects, beaming like a kid who just received a gold star. Stanley laughs in a breathy sound, shaking his head.  
  
“Poultry needs to be kosher,” -Then, when Bill cocks a brow- “poultry, eggs.”  
  
“Oh. Right,” He clicks his tongue, never once taking his eyes off Stanley, and breaks into a slow, careful grin “So… chips, then?” Stanley laughs fondly, sparing himself a moment’s weakness, and shakes his head again, curls bouncing on his head with the movement.  
  
“I’m not hungry, thanks. Besides, if I don’t eat dinner tonight, my roommate will and his boyfriend will _kill me_ if he starts overeating.”  
  
“Worried about him gaining weight?” Bill muses with a pout. Stanley reassures him very quickly that _no,_ that _isn’t the case_ , afraid that he’ll think he’s in any way bigoted- Stanley is very much _not_ a bigot.  
  
“No, God no. He’s just a health nut. I say a health nut but it’s more like he’s _obsessed,”_ Bill nods with a little confused twist of the brow and Stanley rests his face in his hands “I’m friends with a bunch of sitcom characters.” He hastily adds and Bill immediately breaks into a grin, laughing mirthfully as if that’s the funniest thing he’s heard all year.  
  
“Oh, I _definitely_ understand that,” Rising from his seat, Bill gives Stanley a momentary nod of acknowledgement that makes his heart jackrabbit in his chest “I’ll leave you alone,” he looks at the plate of cookies, as if considering something, then leans over to take several- four, at least- offering a cheeky grin “I don’t have a boyfriend to worry about my weight so _I’ll_ eat for you.” He winks and leaves the room with this strange, swaggered sway of the hips. Stanley sits quietly, blinking dumbly at the doorway and wondering if _that comment_ -which he’d stated so easily with this teasing, almost seductive alliteration- was a way of indicating his single status. Georgie nudges him softly and Stanley turns to notice him staring with that same, know-it-all grin.  
  
“Get back to work, Georgie.” He mutters in a hoarse voice, watching as he shrugs and looks back down at his paper, corner of his lips curling in a manner that suggests amusement. Stanley swallows, composes himself, and promptly thinks about how disappointed Eddie would be to know that he’d given in to his libido in favor for unprofessionalism. Unfortunately, thinking of Eddie- as it often does- turns to thinking of Richie and, subsequently, Beverly, who he’s sure would be doubly excited where Eddie is upset. _Heavens,_ Stanley thinks, rubbing his forehead carefully, _this Bill guy needs to get significantly uglier very quickly or I may just implode.  
  
_

* * *

_  
_ Session three comes some few days later, as Mrs. Denbrough had promptly decided two sessions a week would be beneficial for Georgie, who has a big test coming up in a few weeks. This time, it takes a full hour until Bill returns and subsequently turns Stanley into an incoherent puddle of mush. At the midway point of their session, he finds himself desperate to use the restroom, and takes a quiet moment amid their working to make use of Georgie’s distraction and competence, straightening himself carefully.  
  
“I need the bathroom, could you direct me there?” Georgie stares at his paper for a moment- Stanley thinks it’s so he can finish reading a sentence, but little does he know it’s to consider whether or not to go through with his diabolical plan- before looking up sweetly and nodding.  
  
“Sure, it’s just up the stairs. First door on the right.”  
  
“Alright,” Stanley nods, rising from his chair gracefully and peering quickly over Georgie’s shoulder to grin privately at all the red ticks across his page- really, he’s been making incredible progress in such a short amount of time “Keep answering these and if you get stuck, skip to the next question. I’ll help when I get back.” He doesn’t notice Georgie’s chuckle, nor does he notice the way he mutters ‘ _If you get back’_ under his breath, as he walks out the dining room and through the hall, searching tentatively for the stairs in that unsure way someone will when feeling as though they’re intruding on someone’s home.  
  
He makes his way upstairs efficiently, keeping himself distanced from his curious nature as he enters the foyer and eyes the door to the bathroom. Stanley’s always been an observant person, it’s his curse and virtue- where it’s helpful, it can make oneself seem nosey when walking through a home and immediately eying personal belongings as if subconsciously attracted towards private things. Casually, he swings the door open and steps inside, suddenly stopping dead in his tracks when he finds carpet where there should be tile, a bed where there should be a bath, and Bill Denbrough where there should be no one at all.  
  
“Hello?” He asks, confused, as Stanley splutters, feeling heat rush to his cheeks with embarrassment.  
  
“Sorry, I- I thought this was the bathroom.” Bill laughs breathily and shakes his head, shuffling from where he’s been sitting and shrugging nonchalantly- _always so relaxed,_ Stanley notes, _how does he do it?_  
  
“It’s alright. Whilst you’re here maybe you could help me with this,” Bill suggests, gesturing to a large canvas he’s been sitting in front of “tell me what you think.” Stanley clears his throat, suddenly finding he doesn’t need the bathroom when he’s facing the possibility of discovering more about the ever elusive and charming Bill Denbrough. In a brisk manner, he potters behind Bill, eying the painting in front of him with a hushed awe. It’s gorgeous, really- a hilly landscape with trees and a farm, realistic in form, with an unusual use of colour; rainbow leaves, a pink and purple toned hill, everything strange as if part of a fairy-land except the subjects, a flock of sheep within a paddock, who are coloured realistically (he’s sure there’s some technique to be noted there, wherein a striking use of colour brings a viewer’s attention to where it’s meant to be trained- certainly, pure white is striking against a colourful canvas). Stanley lets out a stuttered breath at the painting, feeling similarly to whenever he spends an evening birdwatching- entranced, calm, at peace and full, as if _this_ \- looking at this painting with Bill Denbrough _so close_ \- is where he’s meant to be.  
  
“It’s,” He contemplates, never once moving his gaze from the image “it’s beautiful.” He breathes.  
  
“You think? It’s not too much?”  
  
“No,” Stanley blurts far too quickly, clearing his throat and composing himself once more, trying his best to ignore the little, pretty curve of Bills lips when he smiles at him “No, I like the uh, the _vibrancy._ Texture’s good, too, you can see the thickness of the paint. Interesting.”  
  
“You paint, too?” Bill asks. Stanley laughs through his nose, shaking his head quickly.  
  
“No, no. I uh… I grew up in a,” He squints, trying to find the most inoffensive word to define his family life- he’s insulted plenty of people before by describing his previous lifestyle as ‘ _rich’_ without a second’s thought “ _exuberant_ household. My parents took me to a _lot_ of galleries.” ‘ _But not for fun’_ , Stanley hesitates to add, ‘ _My parents only ever took me to mold me into the cultured and vaguely boring man you see before you.’_  
  
“You have a good vocabulary,” Bill notes. _First my handwriting, then my words- what’s next?_ Stanley ponders distantly, making a pleased sound “I like it, keeps me on my toes. I could write a whole novel with the things you say.” Looking downwards to hide the blush on his cheeks, Stanley takes a little step backwards to distance himself- if he stays so close to Bill, he’s sure he’ll become so dizzy that he’ll faint.  
  
“You write?” He asks meekly. Bill shrugs.  
  
“I write,” he confirms “ _and_ paint. Don’t know which one to pick yet- annoys my college professors a _lot._ ”  
  
“If you write as well as you paint, then I’m sure you have a prosperous future in both.” Stanley comments wholeheartedly and truthfully.  
  
“Thanks,” Bill smiles in that full way that Stanley’s come, in no time, really, to adore, shuffling across the bench-like seat and patting next to himself in an inviting gesture that wordlessly says ‘ _Come sit_ ’. He does as much, blushing at the way their thighs press together and shoulders bump, and decides that there’s no way in _hell_ he’ll survive if he looks at him from so close together, instead studying the painting further “What do you study?”  
  
“Accounting.” Stanley replies with no real heart, awaiting the inevitable comment of ‘ _Wow, there’s a lot of money in that, isn’t there?’_ that never really comes.  
  
“What do you like to do?” Bill asks instead, as if somehow fully aware that Stanley hadn’t responded with a subject he’s passionate about, as if asking what he studies was somehow a failed roundabout way of finding his passions. Stanley smiles gently, looking over at Bill and quickly regretting his mistake when he finds they’re so close that if he leant in just a little, their lips could touch- and by God, do those soft lips look so kissable from this distance. He catches himself staring at Bill’s lips for a beat too long and quickly glances at his eyes, which are immediately more beautiful from here- only now does he see that there are little flecks of green and blue within his brown irises, and it’s fascinating to him.  
  
“Birdwatching.” He mutters dumbly, looking away and blinking at the painting instead, which is suddenly far less magnificent in the face of Bill’s beauty.  
  
“Why don’t you study that instead?”  
  
“You can’t study birdwatching.” Stanley points out, which makes Bill laugh gently.  
  
“I used to think I was smart before I met you.”  
  
“Sorry.” He apologizes quietly, swallowing hard. Bill shoulder-checks Stanley in the approachable way his friends often do, which makes him blush both due to the contact and the clear familiarity of such an action.  
  
“It’s good, I like intelligence.”  
  
“I wouldn’t describe myself as intelligent.” He meekly mutters, side-eying Bill to see him fondly smiling in this unabashed manner.  
  
“Pretty sure tutors need to be smart.” Stanley shrugs and instead gestures at the farm on canvas, squirming under so much attention.  
  
“Why a farm?” He asks, changing the subject entirely because he’s vaguely sure that if Bill compliments him once more, he’ll evaporate on the spot and ascend to heaven. Bill smiles gently and eyes the canvas in this comfortable way that Stanley finds admirable and beautiful.  
  
“It’s my friend’s.” It’s not really a good answer in theory, because it doesn’t tell Stanley much theme-wise. But, looking at him, the way his eyes shine, he finds it the most perfect response there could be. Clearly, this friend is a point of comfort for him, and being near him makes him feel like this painting- full, unabashedly colourful, free- and Stanley can’t help but privately agree. He feels as if there’s a string between them, tying them close together and connecting their minds. Bill looks over at him, Stanley looks away after realizing his staring.  
  
“I should go to the bathroom.” He mutters. Bill nods and, for the first time, appears somewhat sheepish, as if caught doing something he shouldn’t have been.  
  
“Okay.” Stanley nods awkwardly, rising from the bench to wander carefully out of the room.  
  
“Okay.” He reflects, smiling like a love-struck idiot, feeling almost- but not quite- as whipped as Richie oh so often is for Eddie Kaspbrak.  
  
Georgie pretends to be surprised when Stanley returns and tells him he was directed to the wrong room. Stanley lets him get away with it. 


	3. The Way I Feel Around Him

The next time Stanley sees Bill is completely away from a tutoring environment, which could be argued as far more mortifying than in front of his brother, who he’s supposed to be teaching rather than ignoring in favor of flirting- he’s not _trying_ to flirt, of course, but it keeps happening unintentionally, ethics be damned when Stanley’s libido is on the line, apparently.  
  
It’s a busy day in the café, with hundreds of on-campus students rolling in for a quick fix before class. Stanley’s been working here for months now- not as long as Beverly, but close- and he’s familiar with the usual tango, managing to keep up with traffic and customer’s ridiculous macchiato requirements with ease. He works mindlessly, in a robotic manner that Beverly’s often referred to affectionately as Stanley’s ‘ _dead zombie work glare’_ , shifting around to complete task after task. It’s just after one particularly frazzling order, wherein a girl with overly vibrant lipstick had hastily requested an ‘ _Iced latte- hold the cream, double the sugar, triple- wait, no, half-half the milk and water’_ that Stanley wonders to the counter in a huffy manner.  
  
“How can I help you?” He asks, voice practiced and unenthused as he looks at the order machine, waiting to punch in a receipt.  
  
“Hi.” A familiar voice greets and Stanley looks up dumbly- too dumbly for it _not_ to be embarrassing, we’re talking parted lips and wide eyes here- to find the one and only Bill Denbrough smiling at him.  
  
“Uh- Hey, Bill.” Stanley tries stiffly, smiling in the stupid, lopsided way a puppy begs for food.  
  
“Didn’t know you work here.” Bill comments with a little smirk, as if amused by this whole situation. Stanley gulps hard. He looks gorgeous with the sunlight streaming in from the windows, all golden and glorified, and he… well, simply put, he’s wearing a green trademark hat that makes his curls look flat and an apron that’s just small enough on him that it’s noticeable- they’d gotten his uniform order wrong, and he’s been dealing with it ever since working here.  
  
“Yeah, I do.”  
  
“What’re the chances, right?” Bill asks with a little smile and Stanley bites his lip to keep from blushing when he’s supposed to be working. _Why, oh why, is it that he must see Bill outside of work whilst, ironically enough, on the job?  
  
_“Crazy.” He muses in a small, almost squeaky voice. Bill clears his throat, his shifting disposition the only indication of any awkwardness he feels in his interaction- although Stanley’s sure he _must_ feel awkward, because this _is_ awkward- ringing his hands together carefully.  
  
“I’ll level with you- see those guys over there?” He gestures to a nearby table and Stanley peers over to see two men sitting and chatting comfortably “they’re my friends. I’m supposed to be ordering for them and I’m _supposed_ to remember their usual orders, but I can’t. I can be aloof, I’ll admit.” Stanley tries his best not to snort affectionately because _yes,_ whilst he _does_ radiate himbo energy, he’d debate it’s entirely endearing.  
  
“Seems like you’re in a pickle.” Stanley comments in a manner that, admittedly, might be flirty by his standards- that is to say, easily understood as witty instead, Stanley’s never been an entirely confident seducer like Richie and his roundabout teasing or Beverly and her assured smirks. Bill beams wide.  
  
“I don’t know anything about coffee at all- what’s a latte? What’s a macchiato? What’s a flat white? So I’m going to trust you with this one,” Stanley breaks into the widest grin he’s ever mustered, unbelievably amused and smitten “I’ll have a normal coffee with milk- I think you guys say white when it has milk?- if you have something like soy milk then _great_. Trying out that whole kosher thing, you see,” Stanley blushes and firmly bites his tongue to keep from confusing Bill any further than he seems to be in this moment by explaining that Jewish people can drink milk as long as it comes from a kosher animal (which this particular establishment facilitates and, _yes,_ is part of the reason why he decided to work there)- the effort is cute and the failure is even cuter “I’ll have uh… _three_ sugars because _I_ like sweet things. The black guy, his name is Mike, likes spiced, fancy things- anything cinnamon is up his alley- and the other guy, that’s Ben, has a sweet tooth but he doesn’t like to know he’s eating sugar. So keep it tasting nice, but make it seem low in calories. Got it?” Stanley chuckles breathily and shakes his head, close to rolling his eyes.  
  
“Quite a task you’ve given me here.”  
  
“Well, I just watched a girl order a coffee from you with instructions so confusing that I was lost three words in and she seemed happy enough drinking it after you made it.” Stanley smiles and shrugs.  
  
“You owe me a big tip.”  
  
“Then you’ll be glad to know that I’m always a big tipper.” Bill notes with a confident smile. Stanley nods in a privately charmed manner, turning to walk away from the serving counter.  
  
“Yeah, alright.” Stanley wonders to the expresso machines, working on the orders mindlessly, when Beverly rushes over to him with much haste after serving a customer and almost causes a safety hazard by knocking him over and sending hot water everywhere.  
  
“Stan, who was that hot guy?” She whispers excitably into his ear as Stanley works on Bill’s order first. He blushes, gives Beverly a careful glance.  
  
“Don’t scream in the middle of work.” Her eyes brighten and she makes a cross against her chest, raising her other hand in a salute.  
  
“Scout’s honor.”  
  
“You can’t say that, Bev- _I_ was the scout.” Beverly wrinkles her nose and takes a cup from the counter.  
  
“Quit stalling, give me an order so I look busy before my shift ends in T Minus five and _tell me_.” Stanley rolls his eyes and shuffles to make room by the machine as he makes the little milk art on top- a bird, which may seem somewhat forward or cheeky but he’s sure he could pass off nonchalantly if pointed out.  
  
“Cappuccino,” He tells her, thinking of Ben and considering the drink to be mild enough for a sweet tooth to enjoy without it seeming immediately sugary “and _that,_ ” he begins, moving Bill’s latte aside to work on one of the café’s signature, cinnamon and vanilla infused coffees for Mike “was Bill Denbrough, my student’s brother.” Beverly gasps incredulously, elbowing him gently as Stanley moves.  
  
“Seriously? _Shut up._ ” Stanley shrugs, finishing Mike’s drink quickly.  
  
“Seriously. Go serve your table, please. It’s that one.” He points over to where Bill sits and listens to Ben talk passionately. Beverly cocks her brow and bites her lip hard enough for it to bleed, looking both pained and close to orgasm- it is, admittedly, hilarious.  
  
“They’re all so hot.” She whispers in a pained manner, whining and giving Stanley puppy dog eyes. He knows that look, he’s oh so familiar with it. With a sigh, he nods and hands her a serving tray.  
  
“Just don’t embarrass me.” He mutters, wordlessly giving her permission to talk to them (and flirt). Beverly’s eyes light up and she grins big and wide, looking close to kissing Stanley’s cheek but deciding against it when she notices their boss watching the pair with a heavy gaze. Instead, she hip-checks him and winks.  
  
“I’ll hang round ‘till you finish.”  
  
“It’ll be in thirty minutes.” Stanley informs her, watching as she fills the tray with the drinks and serves them to Bill and his friends. They seem, for the most part, quite pleased- his friends do remark that they didn’t ask for their beverages but are quiet once they’ve had their first sip. Bill gives Stanley a thumbs up as Beverly talks to Ben and Mike cheerily, removing her apron before sitting down, and he just about turns to mush there.  
  
The next thirty minutes are _painful._ Stanley spends his time working nimbly, but his movements are awkward and sluggish whenever he looks up to notice Bill watching him quietly- which is every time he looks, mind you. About five minutes to the end of his shift, Bill, Mike and Ben all get up- which is a shame, really, since he’d been looking forward to meeting Bill’s friends once he was done- and leave the shop mid-conversation. The doorbell rings with their exit, Bill turns to give Stanley a wave- which is returned with a blushing smile- and they’re gone. Beverly quickly rushes over, leaning over the serving counter as Stanley works, completely ignoring their boss’ watchful, disapproving glare. Stanley’s sure that if they get in trouble, she’ll just order a drink- can’t get in trouble if she’s a customer.  
  
“So,” She begins, watching Stanley make the standard, heart latte art “I just got us invites to a group meet up tonight.” Stanley tuts and looks up at Beverly wide-eyed.  
  
“Beverly, seriously? I thought I said don’t embarrass me.”  
  
“And I didn’t,” Beverly defends, clutching her heart dramatically “Your man-”  
  
“He’s not mine.” Stanley deadpans.  
  
“Your _future man_ is, indeed, very hot and his friend- both of them, really, but I’m referring to the shy one- is _hotter_ so we’re going, tutoring be damned,” Stanley gives her a disbelieved glance, watching as she leans over the counter to whisper in his ear, as if exchanging an important secret “ _And_ I got Richie and Eddie invited so if it’s too awkward we can just set them loose on the group and hightail it outta there while they go feral.” He’s kind of impressed- really, Beverly should receive a medal for her schmoozing- but, simultaneously, he can’t help but feel his heart anxiously beat.  
  
“I don’t know if I should thank you or be mad.” He answers honestly- on one hand, he finally has his excuse to flirt with Bill openly but, on the other, he _finally has his excuse to flirt with Bill openly_ and he’s _never_ flirted before in his Jewish, gay life.  
  
“Oh, kiss my cheek and thank me for all of eternity,” Beverly mutters with a wave of her hand. Suddenly, her eyes turn devilish as she catches Stanley’s gaze enticingly “Wear that black turtleneck you had on for Friendsgiving, by the way- I have these chic checkered pants that would look _so good_ with it.” Stanley sighs and rolls his eyes, checking the clock to find that his shift has ended. Untying his apron, he watches her seriously.  
  
“Text me the details,” –then, offhandedly- “you’re a devil, Bev.”  
  
“Oh, I _know._ ”  
  


* * *

  
The pants _do_ look good with his turtleneck. Looking in the mirror had made Beverly’s intentions clear- they _are_ chic, but indeed tight enough to very pointedly emphasise the swell of his ass, making Stanley look like, in Richie’s words once he exited the bedroom, ‘ _Steve Jobs if he was a sexy twink’._  
  
Together, the group gather in Eddie’s car- a cute, little blue thing that Stanley couldn’t, for the life of him, recall the name of- and chatter excitably as he drives with the upmost precision. Stanley’s rather thankful for it, really, because he’s been known to get carsick- namely, when _Richie_ drives because he’s a psychopath behind the wheel.  
  
“I can’t believe we’re meeting your boy toy, Stan.” Richie teases, twisting in the passenger’s seat to eye his friend. Stanley sighs in an exasperated manner, tutting and shaking his head.  
  
“He’s not-”  
  
“I looked it up online,” Eddie says, cutting him off entirely as he stops by a red light “and it’s mostly fine if you’re not on the job. So, if you decide to kiss him tonight-”  
  
“I’m not going to kiss him!” Stanley defends, an angry heat on his cheeks. Beverly gives him a pat on the shoulder with a sympathetic, disbelieved look across her face.  
  
“ _Okay,_ Stanley. Tell yourself that.”  
  
“Beverly’s going to fuck this Ben _Handsome_ guy!” Richie cheers loudly. Eddie winces as he moves the car when the lights turn green.  
  
“Richie, _please._ Not when I’m driving.” He hisses. Richie shrugs and pats Eddie’s knee in a way that makes it jerk and sends him into a panic.  
  
“Sorry, babe.”  
  
“No you aren’t, you little shit.” He scolds.  
  
“Please don’t tell me you’re going to have sex with my student’s brother’s friend.” Stanley deadpans towards Beverly, who smiles in a sweet, soft manner.  
  
“I don’t want to just hook up with him, this one’s different,” And it’s such a familiar sentence- certainly, the ‘this one’s different’ is well rehearsed- but with the way she speaks softly, blushing as she eyes her knees rather than speaking teasingly, Stanley can’t help but trust her judgement “I texted him after work and he’s… He’s real sweet.” She mutters. Eddie hums approvingly.  
  
“I’m happy for you, Bev. That’s really good.”  
  
“Gross! Imagine being _in love!_ ” Richie gags and Stanley flicks his ear on Eddie’s behalf, who’s preoccupied keeping his friends alive by avoiding crashing. Richie yelps like a kicked puppy.  
  
“You _are_ in love, idiot. Don’t make me tell everyone in this car half the shit you told me in high school- I _will_ end you, Tozier.”  
  
“Thanks, Stan!” Eddie cheers joyfully over his shoulder, carefully turning a corner. Richie huffs out a breath, rubbing his ear, and sticks out his tongue childishly.  
  
“ _Fine_ , I’m in love… With Eddie’s mom!” He blurts dumbly. Eddie huffs in a defeated manner as Stanley leans back in his seat, crossing his arms.  
  
“That’s it, you asked for it-“  
  
“What? Stan, don’t-”  
  
“First was that time Eddie cleaned his knees after going ass-up running to catch him. Richie talked about Eddie’s eyes and the sparkle in them-”  
  
“Stan!” Richie cries, ambling over the seat in an unsafe manner, caught in his seatbelt and only getting further tangled with each movement. Stanley grins.  
  
“He told me he was _in love_ that night, and said that he thinks he could marry Eddie, despite not believing love can la-” Richie finally clasps Stanley’s mouth, leaning over the seat and using his gangly arms to his advantage.  
  
“Jesus, alright. I’m sorry, I’m in love.”  
  
“With who?” Beverly muses amid giggles, like a mother telling her children to apologize to one another.  
  
“Oh my _God,_ you suck. I’m in love with Eddie Kaspbrak, okay?” Stanley nods as Richie carefully removes his hands from his mouth with a careful sigh.  
  
“Was that so hard?” Stanley teases, amused at the blush dotted across Richie’s cheeks.  
  
“Rich,” Eddie squeaks from where he’s driving, eyes still on the road. His face is bright pink, he looks close to crying, and it’s all entirely endearing in a manner that Stanley would’ve, only a few nights ago, called disgusting but now, suddenly understanding that feeling himself, finds nice “please sit back down, that isn’t safe.”  
  
“Uh,” Richie stutters, blinking dumbly “yeah, okay.” He finishes, untangling himself to sit stiffly in his seat, pointedly avoiding Eddie’s glance. He clears his throat just as Eddie stops at another red light, looking over at him and tapping his knee gently to gain his attention.  
  
“I’d marry you, too.” He mutters. Stanley watches in amazement as Richie’s entire face, from chin to forehead, turns bright red and his eyes tear up, lower lip wobbling.  
  
“ _Please_ don’t tell me that’s a proposal,” Beverly cuts in loudly “because this is just _sad._ ” Stanley snorts and breaks out into the kind of full-bellied laugh that he very rarely offers unless in the company of his friends, tearing up and practically rolling around the car’s seats. Beverly tuts, clearly unhappy that he’s frizzing his hair, and Stanley’s sure he will be for the same reason in a few minutes, when she undoubtedly tries to fix it carefully with her tongue sticking out in the corner of her mouth as it so often does when she’s concentrating, but for now he doesn’t mind much, he’s just _happy_.  
  


* * *

  
Ben’s apartment is very nice and Stanley is, decidedly, _very jealous.  
  
_His first thought, upon getting out of the car and eying the building, is akin to Richie’s initial reaction of ‘ _Holy fuck, guy’s got the college version of a mansion over here’_ \- that is to say that he finds himself wondering how someone could possibly afford such a place when he (as displayed a mere few weeks ago) struggles to maintain ownership of his sad, grey and vaguely depressing apartment. Where Richie and Stanley’s communal building facilitate a pair of gum-covered and vaguely mildew-smelling stairs (handicapped folks be damned, apparently) there’s a working elevator, where doors have numbers falling apart or, in their neighbor’s case, none at all, Ben’s is displayed neatly on a plaque (‘ _Fancy’,_ comments Richie as he raises a brow and knocks on the door- Eddie and Beverly rather adamantly bite their tongues because they’re yet to admit that this is what they think whenever they enter _his_ apartment) where there are no pets allowed, a big, blonde, excited golden retriever greets their ragtag group as Ben swings open the door (Richie runs to greet the thing which makes Eddie- who’s insistent that he has ‘ _severe dog allergies’_ despite never showing it- grab him by the collar and scold him because ‘ _If you get covered in dog hair, I swear to God I won’t cuddle you, Rich, and I know you like cuddling more than you’ll admit’._ Ben cocks a brow at them, clearly unsure whether to be concerned or laugh, and Beverly reassures him that they’re always like this and _yes, she’s aware they act an awful lot like a married couple_ ).  
  
They gather in the living room, an area that looks strikingly similar to Richie and Stanley’s, having the same general layout- all apartments must be the same, he supposes- and could pass as their own if they lived in a nicer place and Richie didn’t leave his junk on the floor all the time, to find Mike and Bill already there. Stanley’s shocked, as he introduces himself to Mike, to find the usual formalities he often falls back upon- greeting oneself with a firm handshake, speaking in an impersonal and distanced manner- are unnatural and forced when the group finally settles together. The way they interact that evening is so distinctly casual, so open and carefree, that you’d assume they’d known each other for years rather than minutes.  
  
Stanley quickly discovers that Ben studies architecture and, debatably more interestingly, used to make dams with Bill and Mike when they were kids. Mike owns a farm with his family ( _‘So that’s where the painting’s from.’_ Stanley mutters to Bill, who smiles and nods enthusiastically) and works as a local librarian, enjoying the solitude such an environment brings. Eddie shares that he’s studying medicine and _also_ considering changing his degree by the end of the year to psychology (medicine being something he took purely on impulse to spite his mother), Beverly mentions her keen interest in fashion, which makes Ben light up in a manner that influences Stanley to ask ‘ _Are you interested in fashion, too?’_ and him immediately blush as the group slowly realizes he’s simply excited to get to know her better, and how much she’s been enjoying those kick boxing lessons she took up a couple months ago- it _shows,_ too, in her muscled arms and general confidence. Richie just generally, as he often does, talks _a lot_.  
  
They drink, as people do when in good company, and spend their time talking until their throats are sore. The TV isn’t turned on, nor any music is played- the group, it seems- all of them- enjoy one another’s company so much that their attention is glued to maintaining the magical connection they share. If Stanley’s ever felt comfortable with Richie, Eddie and Beverly, he feels entirely at home with these people. In a way, he feels as though everything has clicked in place; as if right now, in this moment, he is entirely where he needs to be- he doesn’t feel unhappy, as he so often does studying his accounting course, or wrong, as his parents often make him feel, or even _boring._ He just feels _right._  
  
“Nice pants.” Bill whispers, leaning over to speak against Stanley’s ear, hot breath brushing the skin that peeks over the neck of his jumper, running phantom shivers directly over his spine. Biting his lip, he takes another strong gulp of the white wine Ben had found deep in his pantry (he’d been rather unbothered despite the clear inconvenience having to shuffle through his kitchen served. Stanley hadn’t even brought it up, really, he was more than willing to sip the beer in his hands and inwardly cringe, but then Richie had made a comment like ‘ _Oh, Stanley only drinks wine- refuses anything else, the fancy asshole’_ and suddenly, Ben, who’s far too nice for his own good, insisted on getting something for him, reassuring that ‘ _It’s really no trouble at all’_ even though it very clearly _was_ ).  
  
“Thanks. My, uh… Bev dressed me.” He mutters, staring at the golden liquid in his cup and vaguely thinking of the stars and cosmos (where red wine makes Stanley slutty, white makes him wistful and floaty).  
  
“I like it. Very… crisp. Very you, bit too modern but close.” Stanley eyes the pants himself. They really are rather nice, black and white- toned down and close to grey- checkers line them up and down. The cuff’s a bit short, since Beverly’s a head smaller than him, but overall, they’re nice.  
  
“What do I dress like, then?” Bill hums, leaning against Stanley so their shoulders knock together- they’re incredibly close, Stanley can feel his body heat and he has to look around the circle to check that Richie isn’t watching, because heaven knows if he sees him blushing red, he’ll blurt something embarrassing (he isn’t, he’s too busy trying to make Eddie laugh- Beverly’s preoccupied too, Stanley notices, as she talks to Mike and Ben in her usual animated way, fingers interlaced with the latter boy’s and her body halfway in his lap).  
  
“Something tells me Richie would say an old man,” Stanley laughs at that, a breathy sound that Bill immediately finds pretty “but I’d describe your clothes as fitted, careful almost. A lot of you seems that way.”  
  
“Controlled is the word,” He scoffs, knocking his head against Bill’s shoulder before quickly springing up and deciding against something so inherently forward- wooing, in his opinion, is a matter that must be faced with the subtle tactility of a well-trained dancer, meaning something as plain obvious as getting halfway on top of him like Beverly is _definitely_ doing with Ben now, simply cannot be had (plus, Stanley’s rather bad at the whole flirting thing; he’d much prefer being subtle and, therefore, able to hide behind the guise of platonic touching if things go awry. Eddie has told him before, upon catching him act in such a manner- which he only _really_ shows Eddie since he’s least likely to embarrass him- that he can act like something of a lesbian) “I have issues with being unable to control things, OCD.” He mentions offhandedly, perhaps a bit self-consciously.  
  
“Explains why you’re always so perfect.” Stanley’s cheeks feel so hot that he’s sure someone could easily fry an egg on them. He sips his wine again- liquid courage- and licks his lips.  
  
“I suppose.”  
  
“I had a stutter back in the day, you know. It comes back sometimes, but it’s mostly gone now, thanks to speech therapy,” Stanley looks over at their fingers to find they’re rather close- he wonders if they had been when the conversation started or if Bill was trying to reach over to touch him all this time “kids called me Buh-Buh- Billy, thought it was funny. If you have problems with control, then I’m so uncontrolled that even my voice can’t be contained.” Stanley hums in this little sound, fingers twitching as he eyes Bill’s gentle knuckles, which seem so perfectly round and smooth that he’s sure- in moment of drunken weakness- they were designed to be kissed. He wants so desperately to reach over, to connect and feel Bill’s touch, but he doesn’t dare. Instead, he looks up at him, who’s been watching Stanley stare at their hands quietly. Stanley clears his throat, somewhat embarrassed, and shrugs as his gaze flitters away from Bill’s confronting eyes- they can only really be described in such a way, since Stanley’s often found that being watched by him feels like some kind of challenge or privilege. Confrontational, monumental, _important._  
  
“Doesn’t bother me.” Bill smiles and rocks away just a little, enough for it to be noticeable, putting his hands back in his lap.  
  
“Good.”  
  
Stanley gets pretty drunk after that.  
  
With drinking comes disaster. Granted, for all it’s worth, he lasts until 11.30- impressive considering his tolerance, which is almost as low as Eddie’s. But, of course, any consumption of alcohol has never entirely come without risk for Stanley, who has plenty of horrid, embarrassing ‘drunk Stanley’ stories that have kept him up at night, sweating in anxious chills. He begins to feel light and wobbly, falling against walls whenever he stands, so he makes a point of gluing his buttocks to the floor most of the evening- that decision came when he was sober enough to care if Bill saw him messy. He plays a private drinking game with himself about an hour before disaster, where he must drink whenever Bill does _something_ that makes him blush, in an effort to keep from acting preposterously and kissing him until his lips are wet and sore- which is, to say, he drinks a _lot_ in that hour. Just as Richie’s telling a story that he’s not quite paying attention to, waving his hands around dramatically in such a dizzying manner that he begins feeling queasy just watching them, a shock runs over Stanley’s spine that essentially says ‘ _If you don’t get up right now, you’ll vomit all over Beverly’s pretty pants and we can’t be having that_.’  
  
Gulping, he stands shakily and ignores the way Bill watches him in an interested manner that would otherwise leave him flustered and blushing if he weren’t so damn wasted. Slowly, he makes his way over to Eddie, holding the walls around him for security, and taps him gently on the shoulder, making him spin so quickly that _(oh no)_ another bout of nausea runs over Stanley again.  
  
“Ed...die…” Stanley mutters, scared to open his mouth in fear of vomiting all over his friend. Eddie’s face immediately turns concerned as he takes his shoulders to steady his wobbling body, wiping sweaty curls from his forehead carefully like a doting mother.  
  
“Woah, you okay, Stan? Need water?” He stands so perfectly still that Stanley’s unsure if the world’s trying to make fun of his alcoholic failures, since you’d imagine someone as small as Eddie would have a worse tolerance than him and would perhaps be feeling sick sooner than he so when his turn comes around, he doesn’t look like a complete moron (the reality of the situation is that whilst Stanley makes the choice to start drinking and often doesn’t bother keeping count, Eddie’s been sipping from Richie’s beer on occasion, who has the tolerance of an ox- or perhaps Richie’s always that insane, so when he _is_ drunk, no one notices). Stanley shakes his head and subconsciously makes a ‘nuh-uh’ sound, gulping down the air in his mouth.  
  
“’M gonna puke.” Eddie’s mouth makes a cute, round little ‘o’ as he nods and discreetly steers Stanley through the group of friends to, hopefully, find a bathroom.  
  
“Don’t worry, I gotcha.” Stanley wobbles so much that he giggles, because he kind of feels like a plate of jelly, and he almost topples over Eddie at one point with how quickly they steer to the right- good thing he’s stronger than he looks, because otherwise that twink would’ve been obliterated that night. They find the bathroom rather quickly- it’s not hard in a single bedroom apartment- and Eddie steers him over to the toilet carefully just as his stomach drops to his ass, bile rushes through his throat, and he bends over to aim.  
  
Eddie pats his back carefully as Stanley pukes his guts out- he’s thankful for the emotional support, because he’s gonna need as much as he can get when he’s vomiting in the toilet of a man who he hardly knows but feels like he could easily marry despite having no attraction towards and loses his goddamned mind. This isn’t the messiest he’s been- oh no, Eddie’s dealt with _far worse_ \- but vomiting doesn’t exactly make a guy feel fabulous.  
  
“How much did you have, Stan?” Eddie mutters soothingly, pulling his hair back for him as if he’s a teenage girl at a house party. Stanley, still vomiting and therefore unable to speak, tries to indicate with his fingers and quickly realizes that he has no idea if he’s had five glasses, ten, or so many that he’ll have to pull off his shoes and also use his toes to indicate.  
  
“Baby, where’d you go? I need my daily dose of- _holy shit, Stan._ ” Comes Richie voice from the distance.  
  
“Rich, can you get a cloth towel please?” Eddie tuts as Stanley keeps puking- _Jesus Christ, how much vomit can one guy have?_ \- and Richie scrambles. Finally, _thank God,_ the vomiting ceases and Stanley’s left blinking dumbly into the toilet bowl, facing his disappointments and stomach contents, wondering ‘ _Is that carrot in there? I didn’t even eat carrot today, why must there always be carrot when people vomit? Oh shit, maybe that’s my organs- well now I sound an awful lot like Eddie.’_ He sits up, feeling woozy, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand- he’s very aware of how disgusted Eddie is with this entire situation, but he doesn’t complain.  
  
“What’s going on in here?” Bill asks. For one idiotic moment, Stanley smiles big and wide, but then he quickly feels like crying when he realizes that he’s just thrown up and any chances of wooing Bill have gone entirely out the window in favor of being a hot mess.  
  
“Stanley drank too much.” Eddie explains just as Richie hands over a freshly wet towel. He sponges his forehead carefully and Stanley half-dangles in the toilet- the coldness is rather soothing considering how flushed he feels.  
  
“Eds, he’s gonna have a head full of his own vomit if you’re not careful,” Richie’s voice calls, laced with concern. Stanley giggles to himself, smiling as his friend fusses over him- Richie might act like a jackass, but he can be _really nice_ “C’mere.” He mutters, suddenly grabbing under his arms to pull Stanley out and away from the toilet, propping him up against the cool tile of the bathroom- which, _yes,_ feels just as heavenly as the wet towel.  
  
“Rich, you’re so nice.” Stanley mutters just as Eddie wipes what’s undoubtedly vomit from the corner of his mouth. Richie chuckles, kneeling beside his friend and carefully rolling up his sleeves to let some cool air get onto his arms.  
  
“Want to go home, buddy?” He hums in consideration, head rolling from left to right as if it’s suddenly too heavy for his neck.  
  
“I don’ wanna ruin your fun.” Richie grins and pats Stanley’s back perhaps a bit harshly, considering how it makes him feel like going for round two of destroying his stomach lining with acidy vomit.  
  
“C’mon, man- As if taking embarrassing photos of you to show in the morning isn’t any more fun than this.” Eddie tuts and flicks his ear quickly as Bill slowly meanders closer, making Stanley moan in this miserable kind of sound.  
  
“Don’t be mean, Rich.” Bill leans down between the two boys, who are half-arguing on either side of Stanley, and gives him an amused kind of expression that immediately makes him consider sticking his head back into the toilet bowl and drowning in his own vomit.  
  
“Didn’t expect you to be a drunkard, Stanley.” He muses with a sweet, sweet, gorgeous cock of the brow.  
  
“’M not a druh- drunkard, Billy. Alcohol just turns me into a- a sexy sex demon.” Richie immediately snorts into a laugh and Eddie whacks him again, shutting him up entirely.  
  
“Alcohol is his arch nemesis.” Eddie explains flippantly instead, hushing Stanley by taking his hands gently before he says anything more embarrassing- he pretty immediately drops them when he realizes they’re wet either with sweat or vomit, but the gesture’s still there.  
  
“This is gonna hurt in the morning.” Bill muses with a gentle smile that could almost be seen as sympathetic rather than mocking, but Stanley’s kind of in a pessimistic mood, considering the hottest guy he’s ever seen is currently sitting inches from a toilet that contains the entire contents of his stomach, so he simply moans dejectedly and rolls his head over to Richie, knocking their curls together as he closes his eyes.  
  
“So, anyone wanna tell me why the party moved to the bathroom all of a sudden?” Comes _another voice_ from the doorway. Stanley slowly looks up to find that, _great,_ the entire group’s here to watch his life fall apart.  
  
“Stan threw up.” Richie muses. Beverly smiles in this amused kind of way but still pertains to her duties as the mother of the group, heading over to bend down and look Stanley over carefully, gently cupping his cheeks in that loving, Beverly kind of way that neither Richie nor Eddie could pull off at the moment- Richie because he’s a prick and Eddie because he’s already touched enough vomit to be bleaching his hands for hours tomorrow.  
  
“Let’s get you home, sweetheart.” She suggests- it seems like a suggestion to Stanley, but Beverly’s kind of going for a gentle demand since she feels vaguely embarrassed _for him_ \- softly, standing to help pull Stanley up.  
  
“But the party.” He argues, rising none-the-less as Beverly holds him to her hip with a firm grip- really, it’s impressive that his friends are stronger than they look.  
  
“No arguments, we’re taking you home,” Beverly begins affectionately, steering him past Bill and out the bathroom carefully. Someone- Stan turns his head to notice that it’s Ben, who’s _really strong_ \- takes him from the other side, helping to pull him along “Rich, Ed, you comin’?”  
  
“Yep.” Comes a couple of voices in sync down the hall. Stanley rests his head against Beverly’s shoulder as he’s moved, looking over at Ben lazily.  
  
“’M sorry ‘bout destroying your toilet.” Ben chuckles with an easy kind of sound, shaking his head.  
  
“It’s alright, nothing cleaning can’t fix.”  
  
“You’re so forgiving, Ben. Yuh- You’re good for m’ Bev. She dates a lotta bad boys but you’re an- an angel.” Ben blushes and looks down to the floor whilst Beverly smiles big and wide  
  
“He is.” She agrees, which only makes Ben’s blush deepen further. It’s amusing and whilst Stanley’s too drunk to recognize this moment’s significance, he certainly smiles through a throbbing headache the next morning when he recalls Beverly Marsh smiling at a romantic interest in a manner that isn’t intended to be attractive but is, instead, genuine and therefore far prettier than any other smile could’ve possibly been.  
  
When he finally gets home, Beverly tucking him in and kissing his forehead as Eddie gives Richie a million different instructions to look after him when he wakes up with a hangover, Stanley simply rolls to the side and closes his eyes, falling asleep pretty quickly after that.  
  
The next morning is demonic and Stanley wants to shoot his brains out all over the floor at the memory of embarrassing himself in front of Bill, but he gets up anyway, dying as Richie babies him with a softness that he only really allows Stanley to witness from time to time. He spends his day eying the clock with dread as 5pm slowly approaches. If tutoring around Bill was painful before, it’s going to be hellish now.  
  


* * *

  
Because the world hates Stanley Uris with everything it’s got, Bill Denbrough is the one to open the door. It’s a cold day and the weather’s miserable in a manner that directly reflects Stanley’s hungover state- sad, grey clouds, a steady drizzle all throughout the evening and the much rumored high chance of a storm (the storm being, in this wretched analogy of Stanley’s life, the inevitable moment that Bill admits he’s never had an attraction towards him and this has only churned to a mild disgust after last night’s events). The first thing Stanley does when Bill reveals himself is swallow so hard that he almost splutters, chokes and dies right there- unfortunately, this does not happen and Stanley instead has to face the consequences of his drunken actions.  
  
“How you feeling?” Bill asks almost immediately, eying Stanley’s form as if trying to find any remnants of vomit on his clothing- joke’s on him, Beverly came over at about 2.00 that afternoon with greasy burgers to help nip at the last of Stanley’s headache and rather thoroughly washed her pants with the occasional teasing remark of ‘ _I’m never letting you wear my clothes again’_ (both of them knew this wasn’t true, for Beverly loves playing dress up and giving makeovers just as much as she had senior year, when she insisted she make everyone’s prom clothes and whined for hours when only Richie agreed on the condition that she made him a dress- ‘ _Have you no dignity?’_ Eddie had asked. ‘ _None at all.’_ Richie replied before promptly asking Eddie to be his date).  
  
“Fine,” Stanley offers with a shrug, desperate to escape Bill’s watchful gaze. Honestly, he knows he messed up, but must he remind him with those careful, doting eyes? “Is Georgie in the dining room?”  
  
“Yeah,” Bill begins, spluttering a little in the face of Stanley’s immediate formality “come in.” Stanley does as much, rather briskly (and embarrassingly) squeezing past Bill to quickly hurry over to the dining room, where he finds Georgie quietly reading through his textbook. With a private smile (and relieved breath since he’s now away from Bill) he takes place beside his student, pulling his chair in.  
  
“Got a test tomorrow.” Georgie anxiously says, eyes glued to the textbook. Stanley nods, watching as his fingers twitch nervously and his eyes rake over the page in a jittery manner.  
  
“You know the theory, Georgie,” He offers with conviction as his student looks up, rather reluctantly tearing his gaze away from the pages “As long as you trust in your abilities, you’ll do well. It’s about confidence.”  
  
“But I’ve _never_ done well in a test before.” He mutters, voice whiney and upset. Stanley smiles kindly, in a manner that makes him wonder if he looks like Ben, and leans down to rifle through his suitcase, pulling out a previous test he’s marked. Smoothing crinkled paper, he presents it to Georgie, who analyses the comments he’s written in the margins.  
  
“Half of these questions you had right,” he explains, pointing a calm finger over a place where he’d failed to entirely erase an etched in answer “but you doubted yourself and changed it. You’d be surprised how many things are about confidence- what’s something you’re really good at?”  
  
“Piano?” He answers quietly. Stanley grins, nodding.  
  
“If you thought about pressing a key but hesitated, because you weren’t sure you were right, what would happen?” Georgie stares at the erased answers contemplatively, sighing.  
  
“You’d lose the tempo.”  
  
“Right. So what we’ll do today is we’ll study, you’ll go to bed early,” Georgie grumbles at that, which makes Stanley laugh breathily “and tomorrow we’ll be confident. It’ll be just fine, Georgie. You’re rather good at this when you start trusting yourself.”  
  
And study they do, revising all the work they’ve done in the past two weeks. Stanley makes cue cards to practice with in the morning whilst Georgie runs over the textbook again and tries to fill out the new worksheets Stanley had printed from the internet earlier. It’s a mostly pleasant, quiet session, rain pattering on windows as he occasionally leans over to answer any questions or doubts Georgie has. Occasionally, Mrs. Denbrough pops her head in with a content, pleased smile, but otherwise they’re hardly bothered for the two hours they work. Five minutes nearing the end of their session, she makes another appearance, wringing her hands by the doorway.  
  
“Stanley, darling?”  
  
“Yes, Mrs. Denbrough?”  
  
“Please, Sharon’s fine,” She reminds him as she’s often had to do, since Stanley’s got formalities hard-wired into his brain “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but it’s started to hail.” Stanley looks over to the window- a big, grand thing- to find hard chunks of ice hitting it at a relentless pace, making quite a ruckus. It’s a wonder he hadn’t noticed the clinking, but Stanley supposes he’d been far too focused on cutting cards (he knows that Richie, had he been tutoring tonight- he isn’t, he gets Wednesdays and Fridays when Stanley works Mondays and Fridays- would’ve been so irritated that he probably would’ve pulled his hair out and cursed his easily distracted mind).  
  
“Oh, I didn’t see.” He muses with a little hum.  
  
“I’d hate to see you wait for a bus in such weather- and don’t tell me you drive, because I’m yet to see a car,” To be fair, he would drive if he had a car; Stanley’s rather sensible behind the wheel, but he’s too penniless for such luxuries and he wouldn’t dare ask to borrow Eddie’s, who treats his vehicle as if it’s his child “please, stay for dinner. Zack or I could drop you home afterwards.” Usually, Stanley would agree- a free meal is an opportunity that any broke college student wouldn’t miss- but the concept of having to engage in a conversation whilst Bill Denbrough sits in the same room is so mortifying that he simply could not. It’s bad enough that the guy is almost undoubtedly turned off by him since last night’s disaster, but to have to interact with him again only feels like rubbing salt in to a very deep wound.  
  
“I couldn’t possibly.” He offers quietly. Mrs. Denbrough tuts, frowning, and shakes her head rather adamantly.  
  
“I don’t want you getting hurt- hail can be rather dangerous, you know. Please, it won’t be long until Zack gets home and dinner is already on. Are you sure you really want to go out in _this weather_?” Stanley eyes the hail and considers many things in that moment- he considers his hair, which gets so frizzy it covers his eyes in this kind of weather, he considers getting hit on the head and bleeding out in the middle of the road, considers Richie, who undoubtedly will be thrilled to know he has the whole house to himself and he can, therefore, have sex with Eddie without the risk of Stanley banging on their wall to shut them up or, as he did during one particularly loud evening, storming in there, eyes downcast, to throw whatever he can find at the pair and scream ‘ _I have an exam tomorrow, you horny morons! Have sex all you like tomorrow morning when I’m gone, but for now quit squealing like pigs and sleep!’_ (Eddie was screaming throughout the entire ordeal and, whilst hilarious to recall now, refused to so much as look at Richie for the next week without feeling ashamed- Richie blamed Stanley for it and he blamed his libido and inability to be a respectful roommate). Stanley thinks about Bill and his watchful gaze, thinks about vomiting in a toilet bowl and remembers, with a little smirk at his ingenious, that he is Jewish and, therefore, impossible to feed.  
  
“I can’t eat anything that isn’t kosher, I’m afraid. It’ll just be too much of an effort.”  
  
“Don’t worry about that, I’m vegetarian-“  
  
“Blegh, _I’m_ not _._ ” Georgie mutters in a disgusted tone. Mrs. Denbrough smiles in an amused manner at her son’s antics.  
  
“And there’s no egg or dairy in this meal.” Stanley sighs and eyes Mrs. Denbrough’s pleasant smile. Here’s the thing about him and mothers who genuinely care for his wellbeing rather than success- he’s weak at the knees for them; if Richie’s whipped for Eddie Kaspbrak, Stanley’s whipped for any woman who treats him with a dose of kindness. With a sigh that can only be had when someone is giving up, he smiles and shrugs.  
  
“Sure, I’ll stay.” Mrs. Denbrough claps her hands with the delight of a white, middle-aged woman, and nods enthusiastically.  
  
“Great, I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.” She cheers, wondering off through the hallway. Georgie looks up at Stanley and smiles coyly.  
  
“You’re trying to avoid Bill, aren’t you?” Stanley looks down into those devilish, knowing eyes and bites his tongue so hard that it begins to bleed and he can taste metal.  
  
“… No.” He mutters unconvincingly. Georgie raises a brow and shrugs, packing his things away as the session concludes.  
  
“If you aren’t confident, you won’t succeed.” He, the little shit, sing-songs. Stanley sighs and hates that he’s right.  
  
He sets the table to keep from accidentally bumping in to Bill- but what he fails to realise is that Bill’s a good son, meaning he comes in no less than two minutes later to make everyone’s drink.  
  
“Wine?” He asks with a knowing smirk as he pulls out the glasses. Stanley sighs, exasperated, as he puts down a fork against the table with a hollow _thunk_.  
  
“Water’s fine.” He mutters quietly. Bill gives him a soft, tight smile that Stanley’s _sure_ is overly sympathetic- or perhaps it’s teasing, he’s not quite sure but either option is decidedly unpleasant. Bill goes to open his mouth- undoubtedly to laugh at Stanley- but they’re interrupted by a tall man, wearing the nicest pressed suit Stanley’s ever had the pleasure of being jealous of in his life, walking into the room confidently, approaching him with an outstretched hand.  
  
“You must be Stanley, Georgie’s tutor.” Stanley smiles, turning away from Bill entirely in favor of taking the man’s hand and shaking it- the Denbrough’s, he’s come to learn, are rather fond of shaking hands to introduce themselves and Stanley, for one, is rather pleased with such a respect of formality.  
  
“I am indeed. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Denbrough.”  
  
“Likewise,” He begins, removing his hand with a little smile before shucking off his jacket and resting it against the back of the chair that sits at the head of the table as he speaks “I must say, Stanley, I’m rather impressed with the progress you’ve made with my son.” He turns to Bill, taking a wineglass from the counter and, with a cheeky wink, settles in his seat, grinning in a wholehearted manner.  
  
“Well, Georgie’s a smart kid with plenty of potential.”  
  
“Right you are.” Stanley finds himself thinking that he’s quite a fan of Mr. Denbrough. He refuses to admit it’s because he’s equally as charming and confident as his eldest son.  
  
Mrs. Denbrough brings out a homemade casserole, setting it on the table, and Stanley quickly finds, as everyone settles in their usual seats, that he has no choice but to sit next to Bill, who’s giving him a big, bright smile as if he _hasn’t_ been making fun of Stanley since last night. With a sigh, he shifts awkwardly to take a seat beside him, adamantly ignoring the way Bill watches as he serves himself- sure, he was messy last night, but he’s not about to start wearing his food on accident, so he should quit watching him like he expects something horrible and vaguely entertaining to happen.  
  
“Do you go to college, Stanley?” Mr. Denbrough asks as he piles a hefty spoonful of broccoli on his plate.  
  
“Yes, sir. I study accounting.” He smiles tightly, wincing when Bill’s elbow knocks against his as he leans across the table to grab the salt and pepper.  
  
“Atta’ boy.” He compliments, which makes Stanley’s heart constrict painfully and smile grow faker- he’s used to compliments towards what he’s studying, but he absolutely cannot the stand the pressure to pursue it that such niceties suggest.  
  
“I suppose that’s why you tutor maths.” Mrs. Denbrough comments. Bill turns to look at Stanley and analyse his anxious and twisted face with the subtlety of Richie Tozier. Stanley gulps, looks down at his peas, and Bill sits back as he coughs.  
  
“Actually, mom, Stanley likes birdwatching.” He mentions offhandedly, spooning his food into his mouth and smiling around his cutlery as Stanley rounds on him and blinks dumbly.  
  
“Really? What about that interests you?” He finds himself lost for words, struck stupid. No one has ever, really, asked him that question- usually, they simply roll their eyes or look mildly bored as they mutter ‘ _Oh, that’s nice_ ’. He clears his throat and takes a sip of water to take the time to collect himself.  
  
“It’s a… peaceful activity, I suppose. I’ve found birds interesting ever since I was six- it just stuck.” Mrs. Denbrough smiles pleasantly as Georgie digs in to his meal beside her, eating rather hoggishly.  
  
“Birds are rather pretty, aren’t they? Georgie,” She adds, for good measure, whilst he’s halfway through a particularly large mouthful “Use your manners at the dinner table, please- and don’t pretend I can’t see that you have no vegetables on your plate.” Georgie goes to protest- the disgruntled, teenage grunt he makes is evidence enough of that- but Mr. Denbrough quickly shoots him a glare.  
  
“Listen to your mother, please.” He mutters. Georgie sighs but relents none-the-less, reaching over to pile carrots and peas onto his plate.  
  
“They’ll help you with your test, Georgie,” Bill chastises with a little grin, tapping his forehead with the back of his fork “brain food.” Georgie shoots Stanley a look as if firmly believing that whatever he says goes and Stanley squirms at the expectant, hopeful look Bill shares with him. Shuffling, clearing his throat, he nods curtly.  
  
“It’s true.” And thusly, he eats his peas- Mrs. Denbrough seems very pleased with Stanley’s use of his newfound authority.  
  
“You know, I used to collect bird feathers when I was a boy. I found the colours fascinating.” Mr. Denbrough chastises with a nostalgic grin and Stanley just about beams.  
  
“I should paint you a bird,” Mutters Bill, in a hushed manner that’s loud enough for the table but somehow feels private. He looks over at Stanley, smiling genuinely as he scoops up casserole and cooly chews on it “It’d be pretty.” Stanley’s cheeks burn, gazing in to Bill’s earnest eyes, and very quickly, as if looks can somehow convey honesty, he trusts him entirely, with every fibre of his being.  
  
“I think I’d like that.” Stanley responds.  
  
“Great.” Bill says, but it sounds an awful lot like ‘ _I don’t mind that you got drunk last night and I don’t find your vomit disgusting’._ Or maybe he’s a little bit in love and he really does just mean ‘ _great_ ’. For a man so indifferent, Stanley Uris can be rather melodramatic at the best of times. 


	4. He Makes Me Think That Maybe There's Reasons To Fuck Me, Too

Stanley wakes up that Friday to the smell of pancakes and juice. Meandering out his bedroom tentatively, genuinely surprised to smell _anything_ cooking considering all Richie’s ever known how to make is ramen- and a little bit afraid for that same reason- he peers into the kitchen with a cocked brow to find the one and only Eddie Kaspbrak wearing an apron and humming along to some song in his head, wiggling his hips like a wife.  
  
“I know you’re here a lot,” Stanley begins, holding back a bark of a laugh as Eddie yelps in surprise, whips around and just about falls on his ass “but I feel as though I must remind you this isn’t your home.” He finishes, watching Eddie’s wide eyes and slow breathing. Gradually, his lips curl upward, as if he can’t help himself, and he waves a spatula at Stanley.  
  
“Really? I had _no_ idea.” Stanley scoffs and walks closer to peer into the pan, far less bothered about his presence than he pretends to be- if he’s going to make a habit of cooking breakfast for them, he can move in ASAP.  
  
“Don’t you have classes today?” He asks, looking over Eddie’s shoulder as he turns around to eye the pancakes he’s been cooking. They’re in cute, little heart shapes and there’s a plate of fresh berries to the side- clearly, he’s making some kind of effort, but _why?_ “How’d you learn to do that?” He asks, pointing in to the pan and at the impressive shapes. Eddie’s smile breaks in to something infectious.  
  
“Bev taught me.” He beams.  
  
“And _why_ , may I ask, are you in my apartment at nine in the morning, cooking pancakes into, admittedly, adorable shapes?” Eddie tuts in a mildly disappointed manner, flipping a pancake around.  
  
“ _You_ may be loveless, but some of us actually _care_ that it’s Valentines Day.” Stanley blinks stupidly- he had no idea, really- before his face turns to something somewhat further confused, as if that’s even possible when one of your closest friends- who you didn’t even _know_ had a spare key to the apartment- just happens to be cooking in your apartment in the middle of the morning.  
  
“Aren’t you supposed to be with your mom?” Eddie’s grin increases tenfold, spreading so wide Stanley fears it’s doing some kind of damage to his cheeks.  
  
“I told her to shove off, because I have someone else I’d rather share today with.” He sing-songs joyfully, shaking his hips in little, happy motions that makes it difficult for Stan to maintain his usual apathy- happiness wins with this one, as he loosely holds Eddie’s hips for an awkward half-hug.  
  
“You came out?” Eddie immediately makes a ‘ _pff’_ sound, subconsciously leaning a little more in to Stanley’s embrace.  
  
“What do you think I am, _brave?_ ” Stanley wants to say yes, wants to poke his sides for being so stupid- because really, he _is,_ considering what he’s had to put up with- but Eddie cuts him off quickly with “She thinks it’s a girl, _but-_ “  
  
“I’m just happy you’re here, my baby-o Spaghetti-o,” calls the distinctly booming voice of Richie Tozier, who’s padding through the room half-naked, scratching his stomach and yawning like a Neanderthal- what Eddie sees in the oaf, Stanley doesn’t know “What’cha cookin’, good lookin’?” He stands between the two of them, essentially sandwiching Stanley in the middle of his friends, and places an annoyingly loud, smacking kiss to Eddie’s cheek. It’s disgusting- he’s got morning breath, his dick is undoubtedly somewhere against Stanley’s ass which is _way_ too much for him to have to deal with in the morning and, just generally, he’s Richie Tozier, it’s early, and he’s very much all up in his personal space.  
  
“Richard Tozier, get the fuck off of me before I murder you in cold blood right in the middle of our shitty apartment,” he mutters coldly “and get some pants on- Eddie may be here but I, personally, do _not_ want to see your hairy, ape-like legs in the morning.”  
  
“Such a buzzkill,” Richie mutters, moving back to let Stanley free none-the-less “just wanted morning Valentines cuddles.” He pouts babyishly as Stanley moves out of his space, smiling and rolling his eyes.  
  
“You have Eddie for that- _not_ what I signed up for when I agreed to best friendship.” Richie snorts a laugh, leaning against the counter beside Eddie, who’s only half-listening since he’s hell-bent on not burning the pancakes, leaning up for a quick kiss.  
  
“What, no ‘ _Brush your teeth, Rich?’_ ” Richie questions sweetly as he leans back and licks his lips absently. Eddie slowly grins in that lazy, happy way that Stanley supposes couples often do when together early in the morning.  
  
“I’m making an exception for Valentine’s Day,” He offers, before flipping another pancake around and poking Richie’s side “now, go get some plates.” Stanley gasps rather suddenly, watching their shuffle as Richie obeys and Eddie allows morning kisses, and comes to life-changing revelation in that moment.  
  
“I was wrong this whole time,” He mutters in a scandalized manner, gaining both of his friend’s attention “you’re _both_ whipped.”  
  
The day is rather slow-going for Stanley Uris, who is painfully single and, therefore, surrounded by lovey couples as he’s forced to face his eternal loneliness. Richie and Eddie leave the house together at 12.00, making a valiant effort to keep Stanley company until they realise they don’t have all day together, since Richie has tutoring later that night. He texts Beverly at about 1.00, proposing a ‘singles lunch’, à la ‘ _We’re forever alone, but it’s alright because we have pizza on our side’_ but she quickly turns him down with an adorable ‘ _Not single anymore_ _J_ _’_ that makes Stanley want to both cheer for her and punch her in the stomach for leaving him alone and securing his position as the only single friend in their group (he chooses the former, texting Beverly a curt ‘ _Congratulations’_ because it’s the first time in the history of their long-winded friendship that he’s been genuinely excited to hear she’s dating- he trusts Ben, trusts those kind eyes and knows- no, _trusts-_ from the way Beverly seems different, happier, around him than other men, that she trusts him too). Instead, he studies for a while, gets _very bored_ and turns on a bird nature documentary to kill time, making use of Richie’s absence and inability to tease him for genuinely enjoying David Attenborough.  
  
When he knocks on the Denbrough’s door that night, it’s Georgie who answers, with the widest grin Stanley’s ever seen and a paper in hand, which has a big, bright A- written on top. Betraying his reserved, unbothered nature, Stanley gasps excitedly and smiles so wide his cheeks hurt.  
  
“Georgie!” He cheers.  
  
“I know!” Georgie responds.  
  
They make their way through the house and towards the dining room with a newfound chipper energy between them, Mrs. Denbrough giving Stanley a hug and firm clap on the back as they pass her, muttering ‘ _Thank you for making him believe in himself’_ against his ear. Stanley looks at Georgie, who heads off into the dining room happily, and feels as though it’s her he needs to thank- ‘ _Thank you for being a good mother’_ , he could tell her ‘ _Thank you for raising him properly’_ , he’d say ‘ _And thank you for genuinely caring for him. Little boys need mothers like you’_. Instead of any of that, he merely smiles bright and nods, looking into her teary, happy eyes- it has about the same effect.  
  
He takes his place beside Georgie at the dining table, pulling papers out of his suitcase to go through the next topic. He fingers a worksheet and goes to place it down when he finds there’s a bright pink envelope in front of him. Tentatively, he eyes Georgie, who pays him no mind, and picks it up, noticing that his name is etched on the front. He curiously opens it with the nonchalance of a person who often doesn’t care for mystery, finding a Valentines Card inside. Written is only ‘ _Dear Stanley, will you be my Valentine? Love, Bill.’_ He blinks- once, twice- feeling his heart beat erratically in his heart, and looks over to Georgie.  
  
“Georgie.” He sighs, exasperated as he puts the letter down.  
  
“What?” Georgie asks, looking at the pink paper in a convincingly confused manner. Stanley sighs and smiles with a little laugh.  
  
“Very funny.”  
  
“ _What?_ ” Georgie asks again, taking the card and raking his eyes over it. A smile sprouts on his face as he analyses the words, looking up at Stanley in a giggly manner “I didn’t write this,” He muses. Stanley rolls his eyes and he shakes his head “Serious. This time it wasn’t me.”  
  
“Alright.” Stanley levels in an unconvinced manner, taking the card, tucking it into the envelope, and discarding it completely somewhere to his left. Honestly, if the kid wants to start pulling pranks, he needs to get better at it- the misdirection to Bill’s room instead of the bathroom was smart, but even Richie, who thinks pretending someone farted substitutes as a sneaky trick, has more style than this.  
  
They look at a new unit of work together and Georgie is rather competent as he scours away. Soon, he won’t even need a tutor with how much he’s improving, which is something that makes Stanley somewhat disappointed- he’s come to enjoy their time together- but overall proud. Bill makes an entrance half an hour in, poking his head through the doorway and knocking carefully in a manner that’s rather unlike him.  
  
“Stuh-Stan, can I talk to you?” He mutters quietly, looking at the floor and blushing furiously. Stanley clears his throat and blinks before gaining his composure- he’s rather beautiful when he’s flustered.  
  
“Uh, yeah,” Rising from his seat, Stanley wonders over “sure.”  
  
Bill leads him through the house and upstairs to his bedroom rather wordlessly, which Stanley finds unusual but doesn’t mention. Carefully, he shuts the door behind the two of them and sits on his bed, patting the space between him and averting his gaze when Stanley sits down, too. Bill doesn’t speak for quite some time, but the silence isn’t entirely awkward or uncomfortable- honestly, if it stretched out longer, Stanley wouldn’t mind. But, then again, he’s always been one for solitude.  
  
“I uh-“ He starts, licking his lips and running his fingers over his knuckles as if somehow on to Stanley’s hyper fixation with his hands “Did- Did you get the uh- The card?” Stanley cocks a brow and frowns, shaking his head and shrugging.  
  
“What card?” Bill looks up and analyses his face, gaze jittering from his eyes to his lips (which makes Stanley blush bright red and subconsciously lick them).  
  
“Oh,” He starts, never once looking away from Stanley’s mouth “The one on the dining table?” For a moment, Stanley thinks to say no again, truly unsure what he’s talking about, but then it clicks all at once- the one on the dining table, the card Stanley thought was Georgie’s, _that_ card, the ‘ _Will you be my Valentine? Love, Bill Denbrough’_ motherfucking, pink and beautiful card. _That_ card.  
  
“You made that?” He squeaks, blushing bright red. Bill sits up a little more and smiles with amusement, lips smirking in that beautiful, gorgeous way they often do.  
  
“I _did_ sign it.” He points out, and now it’s Stanley’s turn to be the idiotic one, feeling a whole lot like he’s sure Bill does whenever he asks something endearing such as ‘ _Is milk kosher?’_ He gulps. Blinks. Clears his throat.  
  
“You did.” He mirrors, looking at the sparkle in Bill’s eye. The room is quiet, but Stanley doesn’t mind it- no, not at all. If all silences could feel like this, then he’d be quiet until the day he died.  
  
“And?” Bill asks, slowly leaning in- _or is it Stanley who’s moving?_ He can’t tell.  
  
“What?” Stanley mutters, feeling Bill’s breath- hot against his face. He looks at his lips- those smooth, kissable lips- and feels as though his heart is in his throat, rapidly beating there and keeping him alive.  
  
“Will you be…”  
  
“Your Valentine?” Stanley finishes, slowly moving his hand to hold Bill’s, _finally._ He runs his fingers over smooth knuckles and shivers at how soft he is, as if his brain couldn’t even _fathom_ how nice those hands- those hands that can create such beautiful paintings on canvas- would be to feel.  
  
“Yes.” Bill says, swallowing thickly.  
  
And what could Stanley say to Bill Denbrough in that moment? ‘ _I don’t believe in love’_ , perhaps? Or maybe ‘ _Valentine’s day is a holiday made to make those of us who can’t love feel worse about it’_ would suffice. Or maybe, just maybe, the right thing to do would be to cup those gorgeous, soft cheeks, look into those marvelous, confronting eyes and mutter, as softly as one can when privileged enough to hold the universe, ‘ _I think you taught me how to love. There’s something about you, Bill Denbrough, that inspires me to feel- and that’s always been a difficult thing for me. I’ve always felt numb, felt as if being happy or sad or angry was shameful- that’s how my parents raised me- but you taught me that it’s okay to be myself. And perhaps we haven’t known one another for long, perhaps you are my student’s brother, but I don’t mind that much. I’d love to keep feeling with you.’_  
  
But he doesn’t say any of that. He just kisses him.  
  
It’s as good as any answer would’ve been.  
  


* * *

  
Bills. Tutors. Jobs. Kisses. Tests. Whipped boys. Vomiting at midnight. Knuckles.  
  
Four weeks, many dates, countless Denbrough family dinners and a newfound interest in pursuing zoology later, Stanley finds himself at Mike’s farm. Seeing it for real, rather than on canvas and painted in Bill’s pretty paints, he finds it’s just as breathtaking. He takes Bill’s hand as they stand on that very hill and look into the paddock, the image close but not quite the same with the way Eddie squeaks as Richie chases him, Mike teaches Beverly to pat a sheep and Ben smiles when she shrieks with amazement. Later that night, they eat- a kosher meal, which Bill thinks is that way because there’s no lettuce in it (Richie corrects him and laughs for five minutes, wheezing and dying on the floor as Stanley rolls his eyes and reassures Bill that his complete uncertainty is endearing).  
  
“My mother called me,” Eddie mutters to the table, holding Richie’s hand and smiling impossibly wide “I told her about taking Psychology… And I told her we’re together,” He looks over to Richie, who’s sniffling and looking _very_ babyish as he slowly cries “I told her that if she doesn’t like it, then she’ll just have to get over herself because I love him.” Beverly’s face breaks out to that of swelling pride as she gasps and claps her hands together, tearing up a little herself.  
  
“I take it by your smile that she took it well?”  
  
“Oh, _hell no_ ,” He responds with a laugh, taking a bite of his food and shrugging “she was _mad._ But I told her, that’s what’s important.” Stanley laughs and kisses his cheek quickly in congratulations, feeling impossibly elated, light and free. Richie cocks a brow at his sudden pride but, for whatever reason comes to him, doesn’t tease Stanley.  
  
“I’ve decided,” Stanley begins, spurred in the moment to feed the energy between them “that I’m quitting accounting,” Bill takes his hand and Stanley’s forever greatful for such support. As he speaks, he runs a fingertip over his knuckles, and perhaps it’s a silly thing to tear up over, but it makes Stanley think that maybe, just maybe, it’s _him_ who has the magical hands “I fucking hate it.” He laughs and no one seems very surprised at _that_ admission “I’ve always hated it _so fucking much._ It’s not what I want, or have _ever_ wanted. It’s what my dad wants- a son who’s worth more than him- and I can’t keep letting someone who’s never really bothered to know what _I_ like lead my life.”   
  
This feels vaguely like déjà vu, but it’s far more monumental than before. In his teenage years, his father had pressured Stanley to be a rabbi. He didn’t want to at all- no, that wasn’t his dream- and Richie had encouraged him to tell his father that he didn’t care for such a profession. After an awful lot of yelling, he was instead pressured to pursue an accounting degree and Stanley, in a fearful state, agreed. But the strange thing is he doesn’t think that will happen now- this time the little strength Richie gave him has increased tenfold, because now there’s seven where there once was four.  
  
“That’s a _big step._ ” Mike says with the most proud grin he can muster and suddenly, like a bird may begin a song, Beverly laughs cheerfully and everyone follows, unable to help themselves.  
  
“I suppose it is.”  
  
And it is. It really _is._  
  
His friends. Seven of them. Together. Everything is right, everything is free. Nothing has ever been messier, more disorganized, and Stanley thinks- as strange of a thing it may be for him to believe- it’s _perfect._ And sure, looking over at Bill’s friends who have since easily become his, Stanley knows that he’s still got plenty to learn about Mike and Ben, but it’s this that excites him. That’s what life is, after all- _isn’t it?_ Spending that time with family, biological or otherwise, to learn and love who they are, relishing it every step of the way. __  
  
It begins with an envelope and it ends, as most happy stories often do, with seven friends, enjoying one another’s company and, perhaps for the first time in quite a while, feeling as if they are exactly where they’re supposed to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all, folks!  
> As you can see, I'm very clearly a Reddie writer, because those two idiots really are just *there* the whole time. Hopefully, you enjoyed reading this train wreck just as much as I enjoyed writing it. I want to take this time to thank [@Mere_Mortifer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mere_Mortifer) for inviting me to partake in this exchange; this has been such a wonderful opportunity that I've thoroughly enjoyed being a part of. 
> 
> If you're interested in my tumblr, you can find the link [here](https://aleckisverygay.tumblr.com/)


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